And thus they bloom,

And thus their lives ambrosial breathe away;
Thus fareth, too, the lovely and the gay,
And the same doom

Youth, beauty, flower, alike consigns to swift decay.

HYMN TO THE FLOWERS,

BY HORACE SMITH.

DAY-STARS! that ope your eyes with man, to twinkle
From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation,
And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle
As a libation :

Ye matin worshippers! who bending lowly
Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless eye,
Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy
Incense on high.

Ye bright Mosaics! that, with storied beauty,
The floor of Nature's temple tesselate,
What numerous emblems of instructive duty
Your forms create!

'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bough that

swingeth,

And tolls its perfume on the passing air, Makes sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth

A call to prayer.

Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column Attest the feebleness of mortal hand,

But to that fane, most catholic and solemn,

Which God hath planned."

To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder,

Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply; Its choir the winds and waves,-its organ thunder, Its dome the sky.

There, as in shade and solitude I wander,

Through the green aisles, or stretched upon the sod, Awed by the silence, reverently ponder

The ways of God;

Your voiceless lips, O flowers! are living preachers,
Each cup a pulpit, every leaf a book,
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers

From loneliest nook.

Floral apostles! that in dewy splendour,

66

Weep without woe, and blush without a crime," Oh! may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender

Your love sublime!

"Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy glory,
Array'd," the lilies cry, "in robes like ours;
How vain your grandeur! ah, how transitory
Are human flowers!"

In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly Artist!
With which thou paintest Nature's wide-spread hall,
What a delightful lesson thou impartest

Of love to all.

Not useless are ye, flowers! though made for pleasure, Blooming o'er field and wave, by day and night, From every source your sanction bids me treasure Harmless delight.

Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary

For such a world of thought could furnish scope? Each fading calyx a memento mori,

Yet fount of hope.

Posthumous glories! angel-like collection!
Upraised from seed or bulb, interred in earth,
Ye are to me a type of resurrection,

And second birth.

Were I, O God! in churchless lands remaining,
Far from all voice of teachers and divines,
My soul would finds in flowers of thy ordaining,
Priests, sermons, shrines!

FLOWERS, AN ODE.

BY H. G. ADAMS.

Beautiful flowers!

Fair children of the sunbeams and the showers,

Ye are the ornaments of earth;

Stars of this nether sphere!

The hearts of weary, toil-worn men to cheer,
Ye spring to birth.

How sweet ye are,

Shedding your perfume on the breezes far;

How fair to look upon;
All prank'd with dew,
Ye flash upon the view,

Like many rainbows blended into one.

In valleys green,

Like lovely, sportive children, are ye seen

In woodlands lone,

And amid mountain solitudes, ye grow,

Tall rocks below,

And the brown moorland claims ye for her own.

To me ye seem

Like creatures of a dream,-
Aerial phantoms of delight!
I can but deem ye much
Too pure for mortal touch,

Ye are so very fair-so passing bright;—

And hold my breath,

Lest a foul taint of death

Should lurk therein, your beauties all to blight.

Methinks of speech
A silent faculty ye have, to teach
Submission to thy will divine;
Few are your days, but ye

Die cheerfully

Nor murmur, nor repine;

Ye smilingly fulfil

Your Maker's will;

All meekly bending 'neath the tempest's weight; By pride unvisited,

Though richly raimented

As is a monarch in his robes of state:

Oh! would vain glorious man

Pursue this plan,

How much might he avoid of envy, strife, and hate

TO A FLOWER.

BY BARRY CORNWALL.

Dawn, gentle flower,

From the morning earth! We will gaze and wonder At thy wondrous birth!

Bloom, gentle flower!

Lover of the light,

Sought by wind and shower,
Fondled by the night!

Fade, gentle flower!

All thy white leaves close; Having shewn thy beauty, Time 'tis for repose.

Die, gentle flower,

In the silent sun!

Soh,-all pangs are over,
All thy tasks are done!

Day hath no more glory,
Though he soars on high;
Thine is all man's story,

Live, and love,—and die!