In Eastern lands they talk in flow'rs,
    And they tell in a garland their loves and cares;
Each blossom that blooms in their garden bow'rs,
    On its leaves a mystic language bears.

The Rose is a sign of joy and love --
    Young blushing love in its earliest dawn;
And the mildness that suits the gentle dove,
    From the Myrtle's snowy flow'rs is drawn.

Innocence gleams in the Lily's bell,
    Pure as the heart in its native heaven;
Fame's bright star and glory's swell,
    By the glossy leaf of the Bay are given.

The silent, soft, and humble heart,
    In the Violet's hidden sweetness breathes;
And the tender soul that cannot part,
    In a twine of Evergreen fondly wreathes.

The Cypress that daily shades the grave,
    Is sorrow that moans her bitter lot;
And faith that a thousand ills can brave,
    Speaks in thy blue leaves, Forget-me-not.

Then gather a wreath from the garden bowers,
And tell the wish of thy heart in flowers.