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THE POETRY OF FLOWERS.-No. II.
Viola Tricolor. Class, Pentandria. Order, Monogynia. There are endless varieties of this plant, and all so well known, that a description is unnecessary. It bears many English names, . Heart's-ease, Love in idleness, Two faces under a hood, &c. Pansy is a corruption of the French word pensee, a thought, " by which name," says an old writer, it became known to the Brabanders and those of the Low Countries next adjoining."
And what thought, gentle flow'ret say,
Do thy soft leaves express ?
Lie hidden in thy breast.
A mournful one, it cannot be,
Thou seekest not the shade ;
of pensiveness is laid.
Thou art with thy bright sister flowers
That form the garden's pride;
Art blooming side by side.
Thy velvet form is seen;
Thou art the Fairy Queen!
Of cheerful hopes and thought;
Me, hath my Dlaker taught.
Or in rich gardens shine,
A grateful heart is mine.
The dew, the riant sky,
Lowly and mean as I.
“ Mortal, wouldst thou the gift obtain
Which constantly I bear,
Thee, from God's guardian care.
A gentle, humble mood,
For trusting gratitude.
Yet in His love confide;
In Him to find a Guide ?"
THE APPROACH OF THE SABBATH. Away with the week and its perishing things ;
And welcome the peace that revisits my breast ; And hail to the sanctified season that brings
The beam of thy beauty, O Sabbath of Rest! Of the pleasures I meet in this changeable state,
There are few that can health to my spirit restore Like thy fair advancing, which calls me to wait
And witness thy forthcoming glory once more. O time of refreshing ! sweet foretaste of bliss !
Thy hallow'd serenity round me be spread, Whilst I with the worshipping multitude press,
And still in the temple of holiness tread. How much do I love thy delightful employ!
Yet when thou returnest to bless me again, How oft do I sin and come short of my joy,
And make thee a day of repentance and pain. O bid me forsake my transgressions and live,
Most Holy, Eternal and Merciful God ! My soul to thy government teach me to give,
Sustain'd by thy staff or chastis’d by thy rod. Thy bloodshedding only, dear Saviour of mine!
Can pardon and hope of redemption proclaim ; And nought but thine influence. Spirit Divine !
Preserve me from future defilement and shame.
Then visit me freely, abide in my heart,
Give beauty for ashes and gladness for woe :
Thy strong consolations permit me to know.
With the spirits of all whom on earth I love well,
WHENE'ER the rude tempest of life bids us sever
Yet joy in that moment is mingled with sorrow
Ah, no! at such seasons her radiance is shrouded,
THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE.
I join'd the gay and giddy crowd,
But all my mirth was then
The groans of dying men.
I wept, but they were tears of joy,
Exceeding all the mirth
Repentance gave them birth.
T. M, B,
THE RIGHTEOUS DEAD.
On weep not for the holy dead,
The broken heart at length is healed,
THE BEST KNOWLEDGE.
"That I may win Christ, and be found in him !"- Phil. iii, 8.9.
How senseless and joyless that spirit must be,
What avails it that intellect lightens their way,
When the pure stream of knowledge is drawn from its source,
I revere, though I dare not to envy the mind,
THE WEEPING WILLOW.-Psalm 137.
In ages past where Babel's mighty waters
Roll's darkly onward, sat a weeping band,
Captives and exiles from their father's land.
And while their tears they mingled with the billow,
And while their foes the bitter taunt still flung, “ Sing us the songs of Zion,"--on the willow
Their silent harps with mournful meaning hung.
And e'er since then, that tree so sadly waving
By the still gliding stream, or plashing spring,
“ Seems linked to sorrow like a holy thing."
And still it offers to the broken-hearted,
The friendly covert of its drooping bough.
(Moral of Flowers.)