Sweet plant, I love thee, yes, I do,
   And all thy blooming kindred too,
     (More than the works of art,)
   For in them, I can ever find
   Such beauty, skill and power combined,
   As captivate and soothe the mind,
     And cheer the drooping heart.

   Fair gift, by royal donor given,
   dipped in the radiant dyes of heaven,
     And strown o’er every land,
   Ye shed your fragrance o’er the tomb,
   Steal from deep solitude its gloom,
   And when the gardener gives you room,
     You bless his fostering hand.

   Not Newton, though he soared so high,
   And traced the planets through the sky,
     With such amazing power,
   Nor Franklin, whom we praise so loud,
   Though lightnings in their misty shroud,
   Obeyed his voice and left the cloud,
     Could make the simplest flower.

   Nor could the chemist’s skill suffice
   To mingle such exquisite dyes,
     As in the flowers appear;
   And were all human powers combined,
   And centred in one single mind,
   Its best productions, we should find,
     Stand halting in the rear.

   When, veiled in flesh, God dwelt below,
   He deigned his watchful care to show,
     For man’s ungrateful race;
   When sin their drowsy eyes had sealed,
   He took the lily of the field,
   And bade them think what that revealed,
     And learn to trust his grace.

   The garden which Jehovah planned,
   And planted with his own right hand,
     Was decked with fragrant flowers;
   And shall we boast that we now slight
   What God designed to give delight,
   Ere sin had cast its with’ring blight
     O’er all our mental powers?

   TO A WHITE HOLLYHOCK.

   Sweet plant, so fair, so pure thy blossoms look,
   I almost fancy that some angel, from
   His wing the feathers plucked, and of them, at
   The twilight hour, thy snowy petals made. 
   But fancy leads astray.  Not one of all
   That shining throng, which worship ’round the throne,
   Could e’er such work perform.  None but the hand
   Divine, these curious fabrics wrought.

LINES

SUGGESTED BY VIEWING THE MINIATURE OF A PAIR OF LOVELY
TWIN BOYS, WHO WERE DEPRIVED OF THEIR MOTHER AT THE
AGE OF TWO MONTHS, AND WERE THE ONLY REMAINING CHILDREN
OF THEIR FATHER.

   I gaze upon this picture fair,
   And find strange beauty mirrored there;
   Its magic spell with power is fraught,
   To ope the fount of hidden thought. 
   Sweet childhood’s opening blossoms here,
   In all their loveliness appear;
   Pure innocence, with touching grace,
   Smiles in each feature of the face,
   Like rosy morning’s cheerful rays,
   O’er childhood’s artless brow, it plays. 
   The lips, half open, almost speak,