Flowers.

H. W. Longfellow.

PAKE full well, in language quaint and olden,

SPAKE

One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,

When he called the flowers, so blue and golden,

Stars that in earth's firmament do shine.

Stars they are, wherein we read our history,
As astrologers and seers of eld;

Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery,
Like the burning stars which they beheld.

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,
God hath written in those flowers above;
But not less in the bright flowerets under us
Stands the revelation of his love.

Bright and glorious is that revelation,
Written all over this great world of ours,
Making evident our own creation,

In these stars of earth-these golden flowers.

FLOWERS.

And the poet, faithful and far-seeing,

Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part Of the self-same, universal being

Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.

Gorgeous flowerets in the sun-light shining,
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,
Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,
Buds that open only to decay.

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,
Flaunting gayly, in the golden light;
Large desires, with most uncertain issues;
Tender wishes, blossoming at night!

These in flowers and men are more than seeming,
Workings are they of the self-same powers,

Which the poet, in no idle dreaming,

Seeth in himself, and in the flowers.

Every where about us they are glowing;
Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born;
Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing,
Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn.

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,
And in Summer's green-emblazoned field,

But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,
In the centre of his brazen shield;

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Not on graves of bird and beast alone, But in old cathedrals, high and hoary,

On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone;

In the cottage of the rudest peasant,

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient games of Flowers.

In all places, then, and in all seasons,

Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, How akin they are to human things.

And with childlike, credulous affection,
We behold their tender buds expand;
Emblems of our own great resurrection;
Emblems of the bright and better land.

Early Morning.

Miss A. E. Starr.

H waning moon, that with diminished horn

Now mak'st thy tardy exit from the sky, And with thy mournful and complaining eye Art saddening all the beauty of the morn, I hasten from a presence so forlorn,

Nor e'er will emblem find, when most I sigh, For love so dear as mine, in aught so wry As thy wan aspect at this cheerful dawn. But waning now, the sooner wilt thou sail In nobler lustre and of ampler size, The sooner o'er the budding forests rise With that sweet light which lovers inly hail; And thus, sad moon, when most thou art apale, Thou hast a promise for my hopeful eyes.

Song in Praise of Spring.

HEN the wind blows

WE

In the sweet rose-tree,

And the cow lows

On the fragrant lea,

And the stream flows

All bright and free,

Barry Cornwall.

'Tis not for thee, 'tis not for me;

'Tis not for any one here, I trow:

The gentle wind bloweth,

The happy cow loweth,

The merry stream floweth,

For all below!

Oh, the Spring! the bountiful Spring!
She shineth and smileth on every thing!

Where come the sheep?

To the rich man's moor.

Where cometh sleep?

To the bed that's poor.