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"He felt that cheerfulness, when unalloy'd

With aught immoral,

Was piety, on earth, in heaven enjoy'd;

And wished his laurel

To be a Misletoe, whose grace should make The mirth-devoted year one hallowed Christmas wake.

“In mystic transcendental clouds to soar

Was not his mission,

Yet could he mould at times the solid ore

Of admonition;

Offenceless, grave, or gay, at least that praise

May grace his name, and speed his unpretending lays.”

If such thy welcome, little Book ! discard

Fears of thine ordeal;

Go forth, and tell thy readers that the Bard,

With fervent, cordial

Feelings of gratitude and hope combined,

Bids them all hail, and wafts them ev'ry feeling kind.


DAY-STARS! that ope your frownless eyes to twinkle

From rainbow galaxies of Earth's creation,

And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle

As a libation.

Ye matin worshippers! who bending lowly

Before the uprisen Sun, God's lidless eye,

Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy

Incense on high.

Ye bright Mosaics! that with storied beauty,

The floor of Nature's temple tesselate,

What numerous emblems of instructive duty

Your forms create !

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 planned;

To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder,

Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply; Its choir the winds 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, O Flowers ! are living preachers,

Each cup a pulpit, every leaf a book, Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers

From loneliest nook.

Floral Apostles ! that in dewy splendour

Weep without woe, and blush without a crime,”



I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender

Your lore sublime !

“Thou wert 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,

Ye are to me a type of resurrection,

And second birth.

Were I in churchless solitudes remaining,

Far from all voice of teachers and divines,

My soul would find, in flowers of God's ordaining,

Priests, sermons, shrines !

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