Give me the trumpet tone of fame,
The victor's wreath, the hero's name;

Though bites the steel and clanks the chain,
I would a warrior's glory gain,

A nation's pet and idol be,

With slaves to crouch and bend the knee.

W. H. C.

What is glory? What is fame?
The echo of a long-lost name;

A breath, an idle hour's brief talk;
The shadow of an arrant naught;
A flower that blossoms for a day,

Dying next morrow;

A stream that hurries on its way,
Singing of sorrow.

In poet's lore, and sentimental story,

Motherwell.

It seems as 'twere this life's supremest aim For heroes to achieve what men call glory,

And die intoxicate with earth's acclaim.

Ah me! how little care the dead for breath
Of vain applause that saved them not from death.
MacKellar.

To die, and leave some worthy work to earth,

Is but a fine transition. 'Tis to leave

A talisman to call the spirit back,
Reft of its ground-born tenement.

C. Watson.

AMARANTH....Immortality.

The Amaranth is unfading; and it has, therefore, been made the emblem of immortality. In Homer's time, it was customary to wear crowns of Amaranth at the funerals of distinguished personages. Milton, in his Lycidas, classes it among the flowers that "sad embroidery wear." In the floral games at Toulouse, the principal prize was a golden Amaranth for the best lyric composition. The Amaranthus hypochondriacus, one of the American species, is better known by the name of Prince's Feather.

There's a yearning that's felt in your heart's deepest cell,

And silently, vainly, within doth it swell;

And, scorning the hopes of the children of earth,
Seeks the bright home of its heavenly birth;

And that yearning, unquenched in the heart will lie,
Till refreshed by a draught from eternity.

Oh, listen man !

Miss Larcom.

A voice within us speaks that startling word,
"Man, thou shalt never die !" Celestial voices
Hymn it unto our souls: according harps,
By angel fingers touched, when the mild stars
Of morning sang together, sound forth still
The song of our great immortality.

Dana.

Immortal Amaranth! a flower which once
In paradise, fast by the tree of life

Began to bloom; but soon, for man's offence,

To heaven removed, where first it grew, there grows And flowers aloft, shading the tree of life.

Milton.

There are distinctions that will live in heaven,
When time is a forgotten circumstance!

The elevated brow of kings will lose
The impress of regalia, and the slave
Will wear his immortality as free
Beside the crystal waters; but the depth
Of glory in the attributes of God
Will measure the capacities of mind;
And, as the angels differ, will the ken
Of gifted spirits glorify Him more.

Willis.

Were death annihilation—were this life
A lamp extinguished, ne'er to be relit,—
Then words of deep despondency were fit;
Then man perchance might lift his arm in strife
Against his Lord. Were blessedness of mind
Dependent on the vastness of the heap

Of gold and gems the schemers 'mong mankind
Could gather then 'twere virtuous to weep.
But 'tis not so. Infinity of time

Is yet to be. Beyond our vision lie
Eternal realms, ineffably sublime

And beautiful.

MacKellar.

STRAWBERRY....Perfection.

An eminent French author conceived the plan of writing a general history of nature, after the model of the ancients. A Strawberry plant, which, perchance, grew under his window, deterred him from this bold design. He examined the Strawberry, and, in so doing, discovered so many wonders, that he felt convinced the study of a single plant was sufficient to occupy a whole lifetime. He therefore gave up the pompous title which he had meditated for his work, and contented himself with calling it "Studies of Nature." The flowers of the Strawberry form pretty bouquets; but, as the delicious fruit is preferred to the flower, they are seldom plucked for that purpose. Among the glaciers of the Alps, the plants and flowers of the Strawberry are found in all seasons of the year. The plant seems to possess all the merits of plants, in their greatest perfection. The berries are the favourite accompaniment of the lordly feast and the most exquisite luxury of the rural repast. They vie in freshness and perfume with the buds of the sweetest flowers; delighting the eye, the taste, and smell, at the same time.

Let other bards of angels sing,
Bright suns without a spot;
But thou art no such perfect thing:
Rejoice that thou art not!

Wordsworth.

She's noble—noble, one to keep
Embalmed for dreams of fevered sleep.
An eye for nature—taste refined,
Perception swift—and balanced mind,—
And, more than all, a gift of thought
To such a spirit fineness wrought,
That on my ear her language fell
As if each word dissolved a spell.

Oh! do not die, for we shall hate
All women so when you are gone,
That thee I shall not celebrate,

When I remember thou wast one.
But yet thou canst not die, I know;

Willis.

To leave this world behind is death; But when thou from this world wilt go, The whole world vapours in thy breath.

Donne.

Were I to give my frolic fancy play,
I'd sing of her as some angelic sprite,
Who, wandering from her native home of light,
Fatigued, had fallen asleep upon the way;—
I'd fear to wake her, lest she'd plume her wings
And soar away from me and all sublunar things.
MacKellar.