Beautiful, even in its error, seems
The Pagan offering of Flowers as gifts
To the Almighty Power; for what so fair-
So pure, so holy as their fragile forms?
Earth's lovliest offspring, whom the mighty sun
Looks on with smiles-and whom the careful sky
Nourishes with soft rain—and whom the dew
Delights to deck with her enclustered gems,
Which each, reflecting the soft tint it lights,
Gains, while it gives, new beauty.
Most wonderful and lovely are they all,-
From our own daisy, "crimson-tipped," that greets
Our English childhood with its lowly look,
To the proud giants of the Western world,
And gorgeous denizens of either Ind,
Towering in Nature's majesty and might,
And lifting up their radiant heads to hail
The sun-their monarch-as he burns above.
Who does not love them? Reader, if thine heart
Be one unblessed by such affection, turn
Far from these lays thy cold and careless eye,
For less than dull to thee the page will seem.
And if e'en NATURE glads thee not, then Art,
With Nature for her model, will but tire:
But ye; Creation's readers, oh! be mine,
If ye do love that glorious book, whose leaves,
Interminably spread before our eyes,
Challenge our onward progress in its lore,—
Small though our utmost grasp of it may be—
Then will ye listen to the simple lyre,
That now, with changeful tone, or grave, or gay,
Wakes its wild music to a gentle theme,-
Gentle and sweet,-Tis THE ROMANCE OF FLOWERS.
SEE, we come dancing in sunshine and showers,
Like fairies or butterflies-bright young Flowers;
O'er vale and o'er mountain, though ever so steep,
Go wander-we'll still on your rambles peep.
Far from the city and smoke live we,
With our neighbour, the rugged old forest-tree,
Who, wrapped in his mantle of ivy green,
Looks gay, for his wrinkles are never seen.
With the zephyrs we dance
'Neath the bright warm sun;
But the moon's pale glance
Bids our sport be done,
Then we close our petals, nor, winking, peep
Till the morning breaks our perfumed sleep.
Oh! are we not beautiful, bright young Flowers,
In stately garden or wild-wood bowers?
To us doth the lover his love compare;
Then, think ye, can aught be more sweet or fair?
Her brow is the lily, her check the rose,
Her kiss is the woodbine (more sweet than those); Her eye in the half-shut violet beams,
When a bright dew-drop on its lustre gleams;
We are wreathed in her hair
By the hands loved best,
Or clustered with care
On her gentle breast:
And oh what gems can so well adorn
The fair-haired girl on her bridal morn?
Blooming in sunshine, and growing in showers,
Dancing in breezes-we gay young Flowers!
How oft doth an emblem-bud silently tell
What language could never speak half so well!
E'en sister flow'rs envy the favoured lot
Of that blue-eyed darling, Forget-me-not.
Her name is now grown a charmed word,
By whose echo the holiest "thoughts are stirred." Come forth in the Spring,
And our wild haunts seek,
When the wood-birds sing,
And the blue skies break:
Come forth to the hill-the wood-the vale-
Where we merrily dance in the sportive gale!
Oh! come to the river's rim, come to us there,
For the white water-lily is wondrous fair,
With her large broad leaves on the stream afloat
(Each one a capacious fairy-boat),
The swan among FLOWERS! how stately ride.
Her snow-white leaves on the rippling tide;
And the dragon-fly gallantly stays to sip
A kiss of dew from her goblet's lip:
Oh! come in the glow
Of the long summer's day,
When the cool waves flow,
And the zephyrs play;
Oh! dwell not in cities, 'mid cark and care,
But come to the river's rim, come to us there.
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