————— 


HORACE SMITH, 

“Thou wert not, Solomon, in all thy glory, 
Array’d,” the lilies cry, “in robes like ours; 


How vain your grandeur | ah, how transitory, 

Are human flowers !” 



In the sweet-scented picture, heavenly Artist! 
With which thou paintest nature’s wide-spread hall,— 


What a delightful lesson thou impartest 
Of love to all! 


Not useless are ye, flowers ! though made for pleasure, 

Blooming o’er field and wave, by day and night, 


From every source your sanction bids me treasure 


Harmless delight. 



Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary 
For such a world of thought could furnish scope ? 


Hach fading calyx a memento mori, 


Yet fount of hope. 



Posthumous glories! angel-like collection |! 
Upraised from seed or bulb interr’d in earth, 


Ye are to me a type of resurrection, 
A second birth! 


Were I, O God! in churchlegs lands remaining, 

Far from all voice of teachers or divines, 


My soul would find in flowers of thy ordaining, 


Priests, sermons, shrines | 










