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"Flowers are the alphabet of angels, by which
2iJ LOVE the flowers of every clime and season, (5j The lovely flowers of every class and hue; An impulse holy, sanctified by reason,
I feel divinely all my powers renew. When brightly spangle they the mead and mountain,
light up the garden, and the grove bestrew, Or gem the sunny banks of rill and fountain.
Oh but their glowing footsteps to pursue,
IJove thgjlowers: the flowers who ever slighted,
Aught else of virtue Heaven in man hath lighted,
The more minute their curious conformation
Arise, until in hallowed admiration,
Instinctively we feel o'erwhelmed the breast.
Away the vaunted mimicry of art,
How dull and drivelling compared her part!
I love the flowers !—ah! who can cope with Nature,
Or imitate her infinite displays 1
Involve a wonder which transcends all praise;
Skill and contrivance, mocking all essays,
In our inquisitorial surveys!
I love the flowers,—as tacitly loquacious
Each its credentials thus unfolds to me;
Endorsed and crested with the Deity;
Of adoration and sublimity,
Thou glorious Original of all, to Thee!
I love the flowers !—though fraught with illustrations Of the Eternal, blessed over all;