HYMN TO THE FLOWERS.

What would you get in the top of the tree,
For all your crying and grief?

Not a star would you clutch of all you see
You could only gather a leaf.

But when you had lost your greedy grief,
Content to see from afar,

You would find in your hand a withering leaf,
In your heart a shining star.

GEORGE MACDONALD.

HYMN TO THE FLOWERS.

DAY-STARS! that ope your eyes with morn 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!

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HYMN TO THE FLOWERS.

Ye bright mosaics! that with storied beauty
The floor of Nature's temple tessellate:
What numerous emblems of instructive duty
Your forms create !

'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth,
And tolls its perfume on the passing air,
Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth
A call to prayer.

HYMN TO THE FLOWERS.

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 solitude and shade I wander

Through the green aisles, or, stretched upon the sod, Awed by the silence, reverently ponder

L

The ways of God

Your voiceless lips, O Flowers, are living preachers,
Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book,
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers
From loneliest nook.

Floral Apostles! that in dewy splendor

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Weep without woe, and blush without a crime," O may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender,

Your lore sublime!

66

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!"

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HYMN TO THE FLOWERS.

In the sweet-scented pictures, Heavenly Artist,

With which thou paintest Nature's wide-spread 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 or divines,
My soul would find, in flowers of Thy ordaining,
Priests, sermons, shrines!

HORACE SMITH.

SONG TO MAY.

MAY! queen of blossoms,

And fulfilling flowers,

With what pretty music

Shall we charm the hours? Wilt thou have pipe and reed, Blown in the open mead? Or to the lute give heed, In the green bowers?

Thou hast no need of us,
Or pipe or wire,
That hast the golden bee
Ripened with fire;

And many thousand more
Songsters, that thee adore,
Filling earth's grassy floor
With new desire.

Thou hast thy mighty herds,

Tame, and free livers;

Doubt not, thy music too

In the deep rivers;

And the whole plumy flight.
Warbling the day and night:
Up at the gates of light,
See, the lark quivers!