A world of flowers.  You may see them born,
  On any day in April, moist or dry,
  As bright as are the Heavens that look on them: 
  Some sown like stars upon the greensward; some
  As yellow as the sunrise; others red
  As day is when he sets; reflecting thus,
  In pretty moods, the bounties of the sky.

  And now, of all fair flowers, which lovest thou best? 
  The Rose?  She is a queen more wonderful
  Than any who have bloomed on Orient thrones: 
  Sabaean Empress! in her breast, though small,
  Beauty and infinite sweetness sweetly dwell,
  Inextricable.  Or dost dare prefer
  The Woodbine, for her fragrant summer breath? 
  Or Primrose, who doth haunt the hours of Spring,
  A wood-nymph brightening places lone and green? 
  Or Cowslip? or the virgin Violet,
  That nun, who, nestling in her cell of leaves,
  Shrinks from the world, in vain!

  Yet, wherefore choose, when Nature doth not choose? 
  Our mistress, our preceptress? She brings forth
  Her brood with equal care, loves all alike,
  And to the meanest as the greatest yields
  Her sunny splendors and her fruitful rains. 
  Love all flowers, then.  Be sure that wisdom lies
  In every leaf and bloom; o’er hills and dales;
  And thymy mountains; sylvan solitudes
  Where sweet-voiced waters sing the long year through;
  In every haunt beneath the Eternal Sun,
  Where Youth or Age sends forth its grateful prayer,
  Or thoughtful Meditation deigns to stray.

* * * * *

French Eulogy has always been prone to run riot.  One M. Philoxene Boyer, in a grave work which has just published, in Paris, thus addresses Victor Hugo:—­“You, Victor Hugo, will become not only President of the French Republic, but President of the Universal Republic, Chief of the Oecumenic Council of Nations, Intellectual Pope reigning in your Paris, whilst the Pope of Religion, united with you and Jesus Christ, the common master, will continue to reign in his Rome.”