The Three Sweet Seasons-a dirge for the departed ones, and a

THE

ROMANCE OF NATURE.

THE ROMANCE OF NATURE.

FLOWERS.

Ye are the stars of earth-ye glorious things!
And as your starry kindred gem the night,
So ye, with hues like rainbows, yet more bright,
Gladden the day-and, as each sunburst flings
More wide your nectar'd leaves, where lab'ring sings
The honey-seeking bee, or in gay flight
Hovers the dainty butterfly, we might

Deem ye, too, insects-birds without their wings.
Ye are the stars of earth-and dear to me
Is each small twinkling bud that wanders free
'Mid glade or woodland, or by murm'ring stream,
For ye to me are more than sweet or fair ---
I love ye for the mem'ries that ye bear
Of by-gone hours, whose bliss was but a dream.
From "Poems by L. A. TWAMLEY."

AND are they not the stars of earth?

Doth not

Our memory of their bright and varied forms
Wind back to childhood's days of guileless sport,
When these familiar friends of later years

"A beauty and a mystery" remained?

And were they not to infant eyes more dear
E'en than their starry kindred? For one glance
Of wondering love we lifted to the vault

Of the o'er-orbed sky, have we not bent
Full many a gaze of pleased affection down
To the green field, starred over with its hosts
Of daisies, countless as the blades of grass

B

'Midst which they seem'd to look and laugh at us? Oh! I can now recall th' unthrift delight

That filled my basket and my tiny hands

With buttercups, that shone in burnished gold,
And daisies, with their rose-tipped silvery rays
Spreading around the yellow boss within-

And some, most prized, that had not yet displayed
Their fairy circle, but emerging new

From their green hermitage, seemed as they blushed
Beneath the ardent sun's admiring gaze :-

And then, the treasure housed, with what proud care
The simple buds were ranged in vase or cup,—
Nothing to us too costly for their use,—

And set in sunny window, with strict care

That none molest our wealth.

х

Aye, we were rich

In those young innocent days-rich in our love

Of the not unveiled world-rich in our faith
That all was as it seemed-that life was truth.
Rich in its ignorance is infancy,

And every added year but makes more poor

By added knowledge, childhood's guileless wealth—

The wealth of an unblighted unchilled soul.

FLOWERS never lose their charm.

See a child working in his little plot

When older grown,

Of garden ground; and, if you chance to stand,