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66 Consider

the lilies of the field,

ye Which neither toil nor spin; not regal pride, In all its plenitude of pomp reveal'd,

Could hope to charm, their beauties placed beside. If heavenly goodness thus for them provide,

Which bloom to-day, and wither on the morrow, Shall not your wants be from your God supplied, Without your vain anxiety and sorrow,

O ye of little faith? from these a lesson borrow!"

If such the soothing precepts taught from you,
Beautiful blossoms! well may ye appear
As silent preachers in the Christian's view;
And while ye decorate the changeful year,
Imbued with power the mourner's heart to cheer,—
Not gratifying merely outward sense

By tints and odors,-but dispelling fear,
Awakening hope, by your intelligence,

And strengthening humble faith in God's omnipotence!

Come forth, then, lovely heralds of the Spring!
Leave at your Maker's call your earthly bed;
At his behest your grateful tribute bring

To light and life, from darkness and the dead!
Thou timid Snowdrop, lift thy lowly head;

Crocus and Primrose, show your varied dye; Violets, your ceaseless odors round you shed, Yourselves the while retiring from the eye, Yet loading with your sweets each breeze that passes by.


you, in gay variety that grace,

In later months, with beauty the parterre,

"Making a sunshine in the shady place,"
As Una and her milk-white lamb were there;
Arise! arise! and in your turns declare

The power of Him who has not only made
The depths of Ocean, and the heights of Air,

And Earth's magnificence, but has display'd In you that power and skill with beauty's charms array'd.

Uplift, proud Sunflower, to thy favorite orb

That disk whereon his brightness loves to dwell;
And, as thou seem'st his radiance to absorb,
Proclaim thyself the garden's sentinel.
And thou, too, gentle, modest Heather-bell,
Gladden thy lonely birthplace; Jasmines, spread
Your starlike blossoms, fragrant to the smell;
You, Evening Primroses, when day has fled,
Open your pallid flowers, by dews and moonlight fed.

And where my favorite Abbey rears on high
Its crumbling ruins, on their loftiest crest,
Ye Wall-flowers, shed your tints of golden dye,
On which the morning sunbeams love to rest,—
On which, when glory gilds the glowing west,
The parting splendors of the day's decline,
With fascination to the heart address'd,
So tenderly and beautifully shine,

As if reluctant still to leave that hoary shrine.

Convolvolus, expand thy cup-like flower,
Graceful in form, and beautiful in hue;
Clematis, wreathe afresh thy garden bower;
Ye loftier Lilies, bathed in morning's dew,

Of purity and innocence renew

Each lovely thought; and ye whose lowlier pride In sweet seclusion seems to shrink from view,

You of the Valley named, no longer hide

Your blossoms, meet to twine the brow of chastest bride.

And thou, so rich in gentle names, appealing
To hearts that own our nature's common lot;
Thou, styled by sportive Fancy's better feeling,
"A Thought," "The Heart's Ease," or "Forget-


Who deck'st alike the peasant's garden-plot

And castle's proud parterre; with humble joy Revive afresh, by castle and by cot,

Hopes which ought not like things of time to cloy, And feelings time itself shall deepen, not destroy.

Fruitless and endless were the task, I ween,
With every Flower to grace my votive lay;
And unto Thee, their long-acknowledged QUEEN,
Fairest and loveliest! and thy gentle sway,
Beautiful Rose, my homage I must pay,—

For how can minstrel leave thy charms unsung,
Whose meek supremacy has been alway

Confess'd in many a clime and many a tongue, And in whose praise the harp of many a bard has rung?

Mine is unworthy such a lovely theme;

Yet could I borrow of that tuneful bird,
Who sings thy praises by the moon's pale beam,
(As Fancy's graceful legends have averr'd,)
Those thrilling harmonies at midnight heard,

With sounds of flowing waters,-not in vain

Should the loose strings of my rude harp be stirr❜d By inspiration's breath, but one brief strain Should reassert thy rights, and celebrate thy reign.

Vain were the hope to rival bards, whose lyres,

On such a theme, have left me nought to sing; And one more plant my humbler Muse inspires, Round which my parting thoughts would fondly cling;

Which, consecrate to Salem's peaceful King,

Though fair as any gracing beauty's bower, Is link'd to Sorrow like a holy thing,

And takes its name from suffering's fiercest hour;— Be this thy noblest fame, imperial Passion-flower! Whatever impulse first conferr'd that name,

Or Fancy's dreams, or Superstition's art, I freely own its spirit-touching claim,

With thoughts and feelings it may well impart :— Not that I would forego the surer chart

Of REVELATION for a mere conceit;

Yet with indulgence may the Christian's heart
Each frail memorial of his MASTER greet,

And chiefly what recalls his love's most glorious feat.

Be this the closing tribute of my strain!

Be this, fair flower! of charms your last and best! That when THE SON OF GOD for man was slain, Circled by you, he sank awhile to rest,— Not the grave's captive, but the garden's guest, So pure and lovely was his transient tomb! And he, whose brow the wreath of thorns had prest, Not only bore for us Death's cruel doom,

But won the thornless crown of amaranthine bloom.


TEN years ago, ten years ago,
Life was to us a fairy scene;
And the keen blasts of worldly wo

Had seared not then its pathway green.
Youth and its thousand dreams were ours,
Feelings we ne'er can know again;
Unwither'd hopes, unwasted powers,
And frames unworn by mortal pain;—
Such was the bright and genial glow
Of life with us ten years ago.

Time hath not blanched a single hair
That clusters round thy forehead now;
Nor hath the cankering touch of care
Left even one furrow on thy brow.
Thine eyes are blue as when we met,
In love's deep truth, in earlier years;
Thy cheek of rose is blooming yet,

Though sometimes stain'd by secret tears;
But where, oh where's the spirit's glow,
That shone through all ten years ago?

I, too, am changed-I scarce know why,
Can feel each flagging pulse decay;
And youth, and health, and visions high,
Melt like a wreath of snow away.
Time cannot, sure, have wrought the ill;

Though worn in this world's sickening strife,

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