








440 HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 
’Neath cloistered boughs each floral bell that swingeth, 
And tolls its perfume on the passing air, 
Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 
A call to prayer. 
Not to the domes, where crumbling arch and column 
Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, 
But to that fane, most catholic and solemn, 
- Which God hath plann’d. 
To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, 
Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply ; 
Its choir the wind and waves—its organ, thunder— 
Its dome the sky. 
There, as in solitude and shade I wander 
Through the green aisles, or stretched upon the sod ; 
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
The ways of God,— 
Your voiceless lips, Oh flowers! are living preachers, 
Hach cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book, 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers, 
From loneliest nook. 
Floral apostles ! that in dewy splendor, 
“ Weep without wo, and blush without a crime,” 
O, may I deeply learn, and ne’er surrender, 
Your lore sublime! 

