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“ Flowers are the alphabet of angels, by which
Y LOVE the flowers of every clime and season, & 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,
Oh but their glowing footsteps to pursue,
I love the flowers: the flowers who ever slighted,
Of reason, sympathy, or love possessed ? Aught else of virtue Heaven in man hath lighted,
Aught with the symbolled Deity impressed;
The more minute their curious conformation
We scan, their latent glories unexpressed Arise, until in hallowed admiration,
Instinctively we feel o'erwhelmed the breast.
Or imitate her infinite displays ?
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 ard 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;