In fancifully plumed array,

As ever cloud at set of day,

All azure, vermil, silver-gray,

And showering thick perfume, See! how the Lilac's clustered spray Has kindled into bloom,

Radiant, as Joy, o'er troubles past,

And whispering, Spring is come at last!"

Blest Flowers! There breathes not one unfraught
With lessons sweet and new;

The Rose, in Taste's own garden wrought;
The Pansy, nurse of tender thought;
The Wall-flower, tried and true;

The purple Heath, so lone and fair,
(0, how unlike the world's vain glare!)
The Daisy, so contently gay,
Opening her eyelids with the day;
The Gorse-bloom, never sad or sere,
But golden-bright,

As gems of night,

And fresh and fragrant, all the year;
Each leaf, each bud, of classic lore,
Oak, Hyacinth, and Floramore;
The Cowslip, graceful in her woe;

The Hawthorn's smile, the Poppy's glow,
This ripe with balm for present sorrow,
And that, with raptures for to-morrow.

The flowers are culled; and each lithe stem.
With Woodbine band we braid-

With Woodbine, type of Life's best gem,
Of Truth, that will not fade:

The Wreath is wove; do Thou, blest Power,
That brood'st o'er leaflet, fruit, and flower,
Embalm it with thy love;

O make it such as angels wear,

Pure, bright, as deck'd earth's first-born pair, Whilst, free in Eden's grove,

From herb and plant they brushed the dew, And neither sin nor sorrow knew.

THE USE OF FLOWERS.

BY MARY HOWITT.

GOD might have bade the earth bring forth
Enough for great and small,

The oak-tree and the cedar-tree,
Without a flower at all.

He might have made enough, enough,
For every want of ours;

For luxury, medicine, and toil,

And yet have made no flowers.

The ore within the mountain-mme
Requireth none to grow,

Nor doth it need the lotus flower

To make the river flow.

The clouds might give abundant rain,
The nightly dews might fall,
And the herb that keepeth life in man
Might yet have drunk them all.

Then, wherefore, wherefore were they made
All dyed with rainbow light;
All fashion'd with supremest grace,
Up-springing day and night;

Springing in valleys green and low,
And on the mountains high,
And in the silent wilderness,
Where no man passes by?

Our outward life requires them not-
Then wherefore had they birth?
To minister delight to man,
To beautify the earth;

To comfort man-to whisper hope
Whene'er his faith is dim;

For who so careth for the flowers,
Will much more care for him!

FLOWERS:

SENT ME DURING ILLNESS.

BY RICHARD H. DANA.

I loved you ever, gentle flowers,
And made you playmates of my youth;
The while your spirit stole

In secret to my soul,

To shed a softness through my ripening powers, And lead the thoughtful mind to deepest truth.

And now, when weariness and pain

Had cast you almost from my breast,

With each a smiling face,

In all your simple grace,

You come once more to take me back again
From pain to ease, from weariness to rest.

Kind visitants! through my sick room
You seem to breathe an air of health,
And with your looks of joy

To wake again the boy,

And to the pallid cheek restore its bloom,

And o'er the desert mind pour boundless wealth.

And whence ye came, by brimming stream,

'Neath rustling leaves, with birds within,

Again I musing tread

Forgot my restless bed,

And long, sick hours.-Too short the blessed dream!

I woke to pain!-to hear the city's din!

But time nor pain shall ever steal
Or youth or beauty from my mind,
And blessings on ye, Flowers.

Though few with me your hours,
The youth and beauty, and the heart to feel,
In her who sent you, ye will leave behind!

THE SENSITIVE PLANT.

BY SHELLY.

PART I.

A SENSITIVE plant in a garden grew,
And the young winds fed it with silver dew;
And it open'd its fan-like leaves to the light,
And closed them beneath the kisses of night.

And the spring arose on the garden fair,
Like the spirit of love, felt every where !
And each flower and herb on earth's dark breast
Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.