“Who shall say that flowers Dress not Heaven’s own bowers? Who its love, without them, can fancy--or sweet floor? Who shall even dare To say we sprang not there, And came not down that Love might bring one piece of heav’n the more? Oh, pray believe that angels From those blue Dominions Brought us in their white laps down, ’twixt their golden pinions.” No poet of this--or many a generation past--has said a sweeter or more haunting word for the flowers. We will not forget the “Abou-ben-Adhem;” nor shall its commonness forbid our setting this charmingly treated Oriental fable, at the end of our mention of Hunt--a memorial banderole of verse:-- “Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, An Angel, writing in a book of gold. Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold; And to the presence in the room, he said,-- ‘What writest thou?’ The Vision raised its head, And with a look made of all sweet accord Answered, ‘The names of those who love the Lord.’ ‘And is mine one?’ said Abou. ‘Nay, not so;’ Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still; and said, ‘I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.’ The Angel wrote and vanished. The next night It came again, with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blessed, And lo!--Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest!” _An Irish Poet._ Among those who paid their visits of condolence to Leigh Hunt in the days of his prisonhood, was Moore[51] the author of _Lalla Rookh_ and of _The Loves of the Angels_. He was not used to paying visits in such quarters, for he had an instinctive dislike for all uncanny things and disagreeable places; nor was he ever a great friend of Hunt; but he must have had a good deal of sympathy with him in that attack upon the Prince Regent which brought about Hunt’s conviction. Moore, too, had his gibes at the Prince--thinking that great gentleman had been altogether too neglectful of the dignities of his high estate; but he was very careful that his gibes should be so modulated as not to put their author in danger. _Lalla Rookh_ may be little read nowadays; but not many years have passed since this poem and others of the author’s used to get into the finest of bindings, and have great currency for bridal and birthday gifts. Indeed, there is a witching melody in Moore’s Eastern tales, and a delightful shimmer and glitter of language, which none but the most cunning of our present craft-masters in verse could reach.