"We meet," thou said'st, "though sever'd by the tomb: Lo. brother, this is heav'n! And thus the just shall bloom." 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 Lightly upon thine eye Hath fallen the noon-tide sleep, my joyous bird: And through thy parted lips the breath, scarce heard, Comes like a summer sigh. One rosy hand is thrown Beneath thy rosier cheek: the other holds A group of sweet field-flowers, whose bloom unfolds A freshness like thine own Around the fragrant prize, With eager grasp thy little fingers close : 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 to-day, Shalt in their spells rejoice!" Yes! thou wilt learn their power, When, cherish'd not as now, thou stand'st alone, Compass'd by sweetly-saddening memories. thrown Round thee by leaf or flower! "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 child The bright, young blooming things that never die Pointing 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, So, put thou forth thy small white rose; Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow O'er all the fragrant bowers, For dull the eye, the heart is dull That cannot feel how fair, Amid all beauty, beautiful Thy tender blossoms are! How delicate thy gauzy frill! How rich thy branchy stem! How soft thy voice, when woods are still, While silent showers are falling slow A sweet air lifts the little bough, Lone whispering through the bush! But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring, The fresh green days of life's fair spring, And boyhood's blossomy hour. Scorn'd bramble of the brake! once more To gad with thee the woodland's o'er, CHILDREN OF THE SUN'S FIRST GLANCING. FROM SCHILLER. CHILDREN of the sun's first glancing, Flora paints each dewy bell. But lament, ye sweet spring blossoms, 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. |