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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 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
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
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
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.
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
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
Thou need'st not be ashamed to show
For dull the eye, the heart is dull
Thy tender blossoms are!
How rich thy branchy stem!
While silent showers are falling slow
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
CHILDREN of the sun's first glancing,
Flora paints each dewy bell.
Nightingale and lark are singing
In your chaliced blossoms swinging,
Venus once did fall asleep:
When my mother's harsh rejection
And by you my bosom grieves: Love himself among you stealeth And his awful form concealeth, Shut within your folding leaves.