Flowers! bright flowers from the shady nook!
Flowers from the marge of the laughing brook!
The cardinal, tossing her head in pride,
As she leans to gaze in the mirror-tide;
The sweet-briar, blushing with modest grace,
As if half ashamed of her own fair face;
The wild morning-glory, the yellow primrose,
And every blossom that seeks repose,
And a shield from the glare of the noonday beam,
On the grassy banks of the crystal stream.
But the sweetest reward of my ramble and toil
Is this chance-found treasure, the rare cinquefoil.
Flowers! sweet flowers from the meadows green !
An offering meet for a fairy-queen.
You can find them out, as your footsteps pass
Their hiding-place in the wavy grass,
By the fragrant incense that springeth up
From the drooping bell or the golden cup.
The dew lay bright on their slender stems,
As I rifled each of its brightest gems:
I plucked the cowslip, that reared, in pride,
Its golden head by the daisy's side;
And every blossom that 's fair and sweet
I drew from its shady and lone retreat.
They are fragrant all, but the dearest far,
To me, is the small, pale primrose-star!
The far-away bank, where my steps have been?
Where the sunshine plays and the south wind blows, And the earliest blossoms of Spring unclose?
Up the green hill-side, in the pleasant glade, Through all sunny spots have my footsteps strayed; And the fairest nurslings of gentle May
From her favorite haunts I have borne away.
I culled a bouquet of anemones frail,
And the sweet-scented lilies, the pride of the vale ;
"T was long ere I found, in my eager quest,
The beautiful blossom my heart loves best, -
But at length I espied, in a lonely spot,
Half hidden by grass, the forget-me-not!
Flowers! sweet flowers, blest gift of God!
Blooming in beauty in paths untrod—
Upspringing to gladden the traveller's eye,
To bloom for a season, then fade and die.
Floral stars! unto you is given ́
A holiest mission, ye teach of heaven!
Flowers! fresh flowers from the lonely dell!
In the heavenly Eden shall ye not dwell?
Flowers! bright flowers from the sunny nook,
Culled from the marge of the singing brook!
Shall ye not grow by the stream of life,
In that clime with beauty and fragrance rife?
God of the Flowers! to Thee we raise
Hymns of thanksgiving and grateful praise!
Thy goodness and bounty have given birth
To all beautiful things on the glad, green earth,
And made them ministers, gentle and kind,
Of wisdom and truth to the human mind!
A type of humility thou hast set,
In the delicate, shrinking violet;
The primrose speaketh of EARLY YOUTH,-
May OURS be led in the way of Truth!
And lest Thy precepts should be forgot,
Plant Thou in our hearts the FORGET-ME-NOT!
DIPLOMA OF THE BOSTON MUSICAL
WHEN the Goddess of Song left her throne of light,
To cheer the earth with her presence bright,
A while in mid-air she staid her wing,
And striking her harp, began to sing.
Far and near, the sweet sounds were heard,
And each human heart felt its pulses stirred;
And behold! at her feet, in homage free,
Earth's sternest and haughtiest have bent the knee.
In mute adoration the German knelt;
The gay, gallant Frenchman the impulse felt;
And the fervent Italian poured forth his praise,
In his favored country's impassioned lays.
The caftaned Ottoman ceased to recline,
And bowed his bright crescent before her shrine;
The Indian Chieftain forgot his wrongs,
And listened entranced to her magic songs.
She bound the Highlander in silken chains,
And held him fast with her witching strains;
While the son of Afric, with outstretched arms,
In untutored accents, declared her charms.
From palace and hovel her praises ring,
From the toil-worn slave, and the sceptred king;
Through earth and air they the strains prolong,
And confess the magical power of Song.
"Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord."
THERE are sighs and tears in darkened room,
And every face wears the deepest gloom;
For visions of coffin, and shroud, and pall,
Like midnight shades round their spirits fall.
They have gathered in tears round a loved one's bed,
Who is soon to repose with the silent dead;
And ready they part from her forehead fair
The clustering tresses of golden hair.
She is young and gay will she dare to brave
The terrors that cling round the darksome grave?
Can she listen unmoved to the rushing wing
Of thy shadowy herald, oh fearful King!
Look on her brow - 't is with dread o'ercast;
Again and death's bitterness all is past!
No clouds shall e'er darken her spirit more,
The SUN has arisen, the night is o'er!
Weep not for me," is her earnest cry;
"Ye know not how blissful it is to die, When the spirit looks through the outer veil, To the shrine of the great Invisible'
"The valley of death has no gloom for me;
For ever before me my Saviour I see;
His arm is my staff, and he leadeth me on,
Till the portals of heaven my spirit hath won.
"O, then with triumphant thanksgiving and praise, The song of redemption forever I'll raise;
The world, with its pleasures, recedes from my view,Till I meet you in heaven, beloved
ones, adieu!" 'Tis over- the soul, from its prison of clay, To the land of the blessed hath taken its way; But a smile, like a sunbeam, yet lingers above The lips whose last accents breathed mercy and love.
O, happy the soul that can fearlessly brook
On the presence of death, with its terrors, to look!
That can lift to the cross an unwavering eye,
And, with faith in the promises, joyfully die!
How can I sing of thee, Mary,
My beautiful, my own!
For thou liest low, where the violets grow,
And the turf is thy headstone, Mary!
Yet mourn I not for thee, Mary —
I would not call thee back!
Though my home is lone, and the music tone
Of thy voice I ever lack, Mary!
I think of thy gentle smile, Mary,
And thy pure unsullied truth,
And I call thee blest, who hast gone to rest,
In the morning of thy youth, Mary!
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