borace Smith. 1779-1849. HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. ay-stars! that ope your frownless eyes to twinkle From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation, nd dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle As a libation! e matin worshippers! who bending lowly Before the uprisen sun-God's lidless eyehrow from your chalices a sweet and holy Incense on high ! e bright mosaics! that with storied beauty Neath cloister'd boughs, each floral bell that swingeth And tolls its perfume on the passing air, akes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth A call to prayer. ot to the domes where crumbling arch and column Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, ut to that fane, most catholic and solemn, Which God hath plann'd; 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 solitude and shade I wander Through the green aisles, or, stretch'd upon the sod, Awed by the silence, reverently ponder The ways of God Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are living preachers, Oh, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender, 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 widespread 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 font of hope. Posthumous glories! angel-like collection! Upraised from seed or bulb interr'd in earth, Ye are to me a type of resurrection, And second birth. Were I in churchless solitudes remaining, Bernard Barton. 1784-1849. THERE BE THOSE. There be those who sow beside Whose footsteps ever wandered there. The noiseless footsteps pass away, Yet think not that the seed is dead That silent stream, that desert ground, Shall spread their beauty round the place. And soon or late a time will come From whom the seed, there scattered, fell. James Henry Leigh Hunt. (LEIGH HUNT.) 1784-1859. AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE. How sweet it were, if without feeble fright, At evening in our room, and bend on ours His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers News of dear friends, and children who have never Been dead indeed, -as we shall know forever. ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL. Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !) "What writest thou?" The vision raised its head, |