INTRODUCTION. ils 
Yet is not life, in its real flight, 
Marked thus—even thus—on earth, 
By the closing of one hope’s delight, 
And another’s gentle birth ? 
Oh ! let us live, so that flower by flower, 
Shutting in turn, may leave 
A lingerer still for the sun-set hour, 
A charm for the shaded eve. 
And among other poets we often meet with 
allusions to floral dials. 
The dial hid by weeds and flowers, 
Hath told by none beheld, the solitary hours. 
WILSON. 
Young Joy ne’er thought of counting hours, 
?Till Care, one summer’s morning, 
Set up, among his smiling flowers, 
A dial by way of warning. MURRAY. 
What a wide field for the imagination is dis- 
played in the succeeding quotation from Hartley 
Coleridge. We might fancy ourselves luxuri- 
ating in a garden of roses, where “ every flower 



