THE POETRY OF FLOWERS.-No. II.
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 ?
What gushings of that chainless sprite
Lie hidden in thy breast.
A mournful one, it cannot be,
Thou seekest not the shade;
On thy bright looks, no dimming trace
Of pensiveness is laid.
Thou art with thy bright sister flowers
That form the garden's pride;
And with the wildings of the dell,
Art blooming side by side.
By noble halls and cottage doors,
Thy velvet form is seen;
Oh tell, of what imaginings,
Thou art the Fairy Queen!
"I bear within me, the charmed gift
Of cheerful hopes and thought;
Abiding trust, and meek content,
Me, hath my Maker taught.
"Whether with poverty I dwell,
Or in rich gardens shine,
Or unregarded, live, and die,
A grateful heart is mine.
"The bright warm sun, refreshing shower,
The dew, the riant sky,
Are all bestowed upon a flower,
Lowly and mean as I.
"Mortal, wouldst thou the gift obtain
Which constantly I bear,
Think there is nothing e'er can hide
Thee, from God's guardian care.
"Bear with thee to thy daily task,
A gentle, humble mood,
And hourly causes will arise
For trusting gratitude.
"I but a simple flow'ret am,
Yet in His love confide;
Thou, a redeemed one! canst thou fear
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 mystical presence and graces impart;
Thy strong consolations permit me to know.
Great Lord of the Sabbath! my spirit prepare,
With the spirits of all whom on earth I love well,
In bliss thine unspeakable favour to share,
And near thee for ever and ever to dwell.
WHENE'ER the rude tempest of life bids us sever
From the friends of our childhood we long have lov'd well;
Part we but for a season, or part we for ever?
How dread we the moment to utter-" Farewell."
Yet joy in that moment is mingled with sorrow-
A joy that all language must fail to pourtray;
Is it hope that thus gladdens our thoughts of that morrow,
When again we may greet those we part from to-day?
Ah, no! at such seasons her radiance is shrouded,
She hides her bright form in the gloom of despair;
But the star of that season that rises, unclouded,
Is Faith in the Author and Hearer of prayer.
Oh! may He be with thee, and guide thee and guard thee
Thro' this changeable scene of probation and strife;
May'st thou follow his leadings, and he will reward thee
With blessings of virtue, of peace, and of life.
I join'd the gay and giddy crowd,
And laugh'd with laughter long and loud,
But all my mirth was then
Like trumpets on the field of death,
To stifle by their clamorous breath
The groans of dying men.
I wept, but they were tears of joy,
A pleasure sweet, without alloy,
Exceeding all the mirth
Of all the world's mask'd vanities,
Its pomps, and hollow happiness,
Repentance gave them birth.
THE RIGHTEOUS DEAD.
On weep not for the holy dead,
Who from the ills of life repose;
Their earthly pilgrimage is past,
And vanished all their sins and woes.
The broken heart at length is healed,
The reign of grief and sorrow o'er ;
Their everlasting peace secured,
The bitter tear they shed no more.
Long through this vale of grief and tears,
With fainting hearts they struggled on :
At length from toils and cares released,
They joyed to know their course was done.
One star on them 'mid life's dark night,
Beamed, brightly radiant, from on high-
The STAR OF FAITH which cheered their souls,
When Jordan's water-floods rushed by.
Weep not for them, they are at peace-
Around the throne of God they stand;
They swell the loud acclaim of praise
That echoes through the sinless land.
"That I
may win Christ, and be found in him !"-Phil. iii. 8.9.
How senseless and joyless that spirit must be,
That can feel no attraction, my Saviour, for thee,
That can gaze on creation, and find its heart rest
In the works of thy hands by their maker unblest.
What avails it that intellect lightens their way,
If the bright beams of genius but lead them astray;
Oh let thy pure word be a lamp to my feet,
'Till Jesus my hope and rejoicing I meet.
How blest is the christian to whom it is given,
To walk by the spirit's sure guidance to heaven,
While genius, and talent, and taste, may combine
Each pleasure to heighten, each feeling refine.
When the pure stream of knowledge is drawn from its source,
And directed by love in its heavenly course,
How widely diffusive its blessings are found,
The wilderness blossoms and blooms all around.
I revere, though I dare not to envy the mind,
That hath piety, genius, and talent combined,
Content, if my Saviour acknowledge my name,
Though I climb not the hills of fair science or fame.
THE WEEPING WILLOW.-PSALM 137.
IN ages past where Babel's mighty waters
Roll'd darkly onward, sat a weeping band,
Poor remnant of proud Judah's sons and daughters,
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, Whether suns brighten, or dark storms are raving, "Seems linked to sorrow like a holy thing."
And still it offers to the broken-hearted,
The friendly covert of its drooping bough.
O well it were, meek tree, when joys departed,
If man like thee could bend him to the blow.
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