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
Some fount of dregless joy-

The rose that hath no rankling sting,
The bliss without alloy :

I heard her from her lone recess
Uplift the bitter prayer,
And wrung with agony confess
There's trouble everywhere.

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
The floor of Nature's temple tesselate,
What numerous emblems of instructive duty
Your forms create!

'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
OF WICKLIFFE.
Mary Bowitt.

A LITTLE child, she read a book
Beside an open door,

And as she read page after page,
She wondered more and more.

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,
Her eyes on it were bent;
And as she read page after page,
Her color came and went.

She sate upon a mossy store,
An open door beside;

And round for miles on every hand,
Stretched out a forest wide.

The summer sun shone on the trees,
The deer lay in the shade,

And overhead the singing birds
Their pleasant clamour made.