The Three Sweet Seasonsma dirge for the departed ones, and a

merry greeting to Autumn Cavaliers and Carnations

.

165

172

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. TWAMLES."

1

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' unthrist 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.

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.

When older grown,

See a child working in his little plot
Of garden ground; and, if you chance to stand,