YOUR voiceless lips-, flowers ! are living preachers ;
Each 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 woe, and blush without a crime,"
O, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender,
Your lore sublime !
" Thou wast not, Solomon, in all thy glory,
Arrayed," the lilies cry," in robes like ours !
How vain your grandeur ! Ah how transitory
Are human flowers !"
In the sweet-scented pictures, 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 ?
Each fading calyx a memento mori,
Yet fount of hope !
Posthumous glories ! angel-like collection !
Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth,
Te are to me a type of resurrection,
And second birth.
Were I, God ! in churchless lands remaining,
Far from all voice of teachers or divines,
My soul would find, in flowers of thy ordaining,
Priests, sermons, shrines I
