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“ Flowers are the alphabet of angels, by which
They write on every hill and vale things unutterable.”

Mrs Hemans.

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,
Or gem the sunny banks of rill and fountain,

Oh but their glowing footsteps to pursue,
O'er Nature's common; there alone for hours,
To dwell in sweet communion with the flowers.

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.
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 ?
The meanest, humblest floral form and feature

Involve a wonder which transcends all praise;
What mechanism, peerless and unerring,

Skill and contrivance, mocking all essays,
Flash through the whole, without one tribe preferring,

In our inquisitorial surveys !
While nameless loveliness and beauty shine,
Colours no brush to canvas can consign.

I love the flowers,—as tacitly loquacious

Each its credentials thus unfolds to me;
Penned as with sunbeams by its Author gracious,

Endorsed ard crested with the Deity;
Evoking every feeling and emotion,

Of adoration and sublimity,
Inspiring heartfelt and unfeigned devotion,

Thou glorious Original of all, to Thee !
From Nature's holy altar to the skies,
Hence let my incensed homage ever rise.

I love the flowers !—though fraught with illustrations

Of the Eternal, blessed over all;

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