A mother in her bower Young plants for heaven prepares, A holy purpose is her dower, A docile spirit theirs; And here, methinks, doth surely spring The rose that hath no rankling sting, I heard her from her lone recess Ev'n thus the Book divine Our stranger-course doth warn Of objects that delusive shine, Of flowers that hide the thorn. Still its unerring precepts show That as the sparks ascend, So man is born to pain and woe Till life's brief journey end. And He whose grace our souls can lead, With heaven-taught strength to bear, Hath in a Father's love decreed This trouble everywhere! HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. Borace Smith. DAY Stars! that ope your eyes with man, to twinkle From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation, And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle, As a libation: Ye matin-worshippers! who, bending lowly Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless eye, Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy Incense on high. Ye bright Mosaics! that with storied beauty 'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bough that swingeth, And tolls its perfume on the passing air, Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth A call to prayer. Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, But to that fane, most catholic and solemn, Which God hath planned. To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply; Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder, Its dome the sky. There, as in shade and solitude I wander Through the green aisles or stretched upon the sod, Awed by the silence, reverently ponder The ways of God Your voiceless lips, O Flowers! are living preachers, Each cup a pulpit, every leaf a book, Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers From loneliest nook. Floral apostles! that in dewy splendor, 'Weep without woe, and blush without a crime,' Oh, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender Your lore sublime! Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy glory, Arrayed,' the lilies cry, 'in robes like ours; How vain your grandeur! ah, how transitory Are human flowers!' In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly Artist! With which thou paintest Nature's widespread hall, What a delightful lesson thou impartest Of love to all! Not useless are ye, Flowers! though made for pleasure, Blooming o'er field and wave by day and night, From every source your sanction bids me treasure Harmless delight. Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary For such a world of thought could furnish scope? Each fading calyx a memento mori, Yet fount of hope. Posthumous glories! angel-like collection! Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth, Ye are to me a type of resurrection And second birth. Were I, O God, in churchless lands remaining, Far from all voice of teachers and divines, My soul would find, in flowers of thy ordaining, Priests, sermons, shrines! A FOREST SCENE IN THE DAYS A LITTLE child, she read a book And as she read page after page, Her little finger carefully Went pointing out the place; Her golden locks hung drooping down, And shadowed half her face. The open book lay on her knee, She sate upon a mossy store, And round for miles on every hand, The summer sun shone on the trees, And overhead the singing birds |