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“ We meet,” thou said'st," though sever'd by
the tomb: Lo, brother, this is heav'n! And thus the just
BLESSED BE GOD FOR FLOWERS.
Suggested by seeing my youngest child asleep, with
Wild Flowers grasped in its hand.
BY MRS. CHARLES TINSLEY.
BLESSED be God for flowers ! For the bright, gentle, holy thoughts, that breathe From out their odorous beauty, like a wreath
Of sunshine on life's hours !
Lightly upon thine eye
One rosy hand is thrown
Around the fragrant prize, With eager grasp thy little fingers close : What are the dreams that haunt thy soft repose ?
What radiance greets thine eyes ?
For thou art smiling still ; Art thou yet wandering in the quiet woods, Plucking th' expanded cups and bursting buds,
At thine unfetter'd will ?
Or does some prophet voice Murmuring amidst thy dreams, instructive say, “Prize well these flowers, for thou, beyond
Yes! thou wilt learn their power,
'Twill come! as seasons come, The empire of the flowers, when these shall raise Round thee once more the forms of other days,
Warm with the light of home!
Shapes thou no more may'st see; The household hearth, the heart-enlisted prayer, All thou hast loved, and lost, and treasured there.
Where thy best thoughts must be!
Ay, prize them well, my childThe bright, young blooming things that never
diePointing our hopes to happier worlds, that lie
Far o'er this earthly wild !
TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER.
BY E. ELLIOTT.
Thy fruit full-well the schoolboy knows,
Wild bramble of the brake !
I love it for his sake.
O’er all the fragrant bowers,
Thy satin-threaded flowers;
That cannot feel how fair,
Thy tender blossoms are !
How rich thy branchy stem!
And thou sing'st hymns to them ;
While silent showers are falling slow
And, 'mid the general hush, A sweet air lifts the little bough,
Lone whispering through the bush ! The primrose to the grave is gone;
The hawthorn flower is dead; The violet by the moss'd gray stone
Hath laid her weary head; But thou, wild bramble ! back dost bring,
In all their beauteous power, The fresh green days of life's fair spring,
And boyhood's blossomy hour.
Thou bidd'st me be a boy,
In freedom and in joy.
CHILDREN OF THE SUN'S FIRST
CHILDREN of the sun's first glancing, Flowers that deck the bounteous earth;
Joy and mirth are round ye dancing,
Flora paints each dewy bell. But lament, ye sweet spring blossoms, Soul hath never thrilled your bosoms,
All in cheerless night ye dwell.
Nightingale and lark are singing Many a lay of love to you:
In your chaliced blossoms swinging, Tiny sylphs their sylphids woo: Deep within the painted bower Of a soft and perfumed flower,
Venus once did fall asleep: But no pulse of passion darted Through your breast, by her imparted
Children of the morning, weep.
When my mother's harsh rejection Bids me cease my love to speak,
Pledges of a true affection, When your gentle aid I seek,Then by every voiceless token, Hope, and faith unchanged, are spoken,
And by you my bosom grieves: Love himself among you stealeth And his awful form concealeth,
Shut within your folding leaves.