THE

LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.

EARTH hath a thousand tongues, tha swell
In converse soft, and low-
We hear them in the flowery dell,
And where the waters flow.

We note them when the pliant reed
Bends to the summer air,

Its low-toned music gently freed

By the soft breezes there;

And angels from their starry height,

On hills, and dales, and green banks write.

There is a language in each flower

That opens to the eye,

A voiceless - but a magic power,

Doth in earth's blossoms lie;
The flowering Almond, first to bring
Its perfume to the breeze,
The earliest at the call of spring,

Among the green-clad trees,

Whispers of Indiscretion's fate,

Trusting too soon-convinced too late.

The Wall Flower clinging cheerfully,
Amid decaying bloom,

Tells of the heart's fidelity,

In stern misfortune's gloom;
And like the clasping Ivy vine,
When all around depart,

Closer in storms the bonds entwine,
Of friendship round the heart.
And glory's crown is proudly seen,
In the bright Laurel's evergreen.

Hope smiles amid the blossoms white
That crown the Hawthorn bough,
And in the Myrtle's leaflets bright,
Love softly breathes his vow.

The little Lily of the Vale

Seems sent our hearts to bless,

Still whispering, on spring's balmy gale, Return of Happiness.

While blooming on some favour'd spot,
We trust to thee, Forget-me-not.

And quivering to the lightest wind
That fans the summer flower,
The Aspen's tender leaves we find,
Shrinking beneath its power,
At every trembling breath that steals

Its spreading boughs between,

Each little blossom's leaf reveals

A pang of misery keen;

Like lightly utter'd careless words,
Wounding the heart's half-broken chords.

For hearts too finely strung,

The tempest wind shall round them blow,
And heart- and branch, be wrung;

The storm's dread wing shall o'er them sweep, And bow them to the blast,

While each must early learn, to weep

The hopes that could not last :

The bosom's sensibility,

Is pictured in the Aspen tree.

The little Blue Bell lifts its head

The Amaryllis beside, Emblems, upon their grassy bed,

Of Lowliness and Pride,-
Bright as the summer's bluest cloud,
Each opening Bell appears,

The sun, that gilds the floweret proud,
Its humble blossom cheers;

Sweeter the Blue Bell's lowly mien,
Than Pride, in dazzling radiance seen.

The variegated Columbine

Hangs its bright head to earth,

As half ashamed the sun should shine

Upon its place of birth;

And drooping on its tender stem,
As the low night-wind swells,
It seems in many a dew-drop gem,
Like Folly's Cap, and Bells;

Rung by the wind in frolic play,
Whene'er they sportive pass that way.

The Musk Rose loads the evening breeze,
With its own rich perfume,
Wafting far incense thro' the trees,

From its thick clustering bloom;
Charming, as Beauty's palmiest hours,
Capricious as its smiles,

One Summer sees it crown'd with flowers,

The next no breezy wiles

Can lure one bud, where thousands smiled,— And hence capricious Beauty styled.

Some strew with leaves the grassy plain,
Flashing in crimson hue,

Some languish there, that ne'er again
Shall drink the evening dew;
And fleeting Beauty's sadden'd close,
Is traced in the pale, wither'd Rose.

What brings the bright and shining leaf,
The scarlet Poppy wears?

A consolation for our grief,

A solace for our cares;

The ancients wreathed the brows of sleep,
With the rich Poppy flowers,
For slumber dries the eyes that weep,

And pictures happier hours;

And in its scarlet blossom rests

A healing balm for wounded breasts.

Yes flowers have tones

A language of its own,

God gave to each

And bade the simple blossom teach
Where'er its seeds are sown;

His voice is on the mountain's height
And by the river's side,

Where flowers blush in glowing light,
In Lowliness, or Pride;

We feel, o'er all the blooming sod,
It is the language of our God.

He spreads the earth an open book
In characters of life,

All where the human eye doth look
Seems with his glory rife;
He paints upon the burning skv
In every gleaming star,

The wonder of his nomes on high,

Shining to faith afar;