THE MUSIC OF THE SEASONS.

Sad tales they told to the sorrowing heart,

Of sunny days about to depart

I listened for music then,

And the yellow leaves rustled over the ground,
And the streamlet rolled with a heavier sound,
And the robin poured his dirge-like strain,

And the breeze sighed mournfully o'er the plain

There was sad music then.

Stern Winter came with his brow of storm,

And dark clouds enveloped his awful form,

You might deem as you looked on his visage so grim, That the spirit of melody dwelt not in him

Yet I listened for music then,

And the hollow wind wailed fearfully

In the leafless boughs of the giant tree,

And the storm-cloud poured on the desolate plain

Its noisy treasures of hail and rain

There was wild music then.

FLOWERS.

EARTH'S beautiful darlings, the cherished of all,
In city and hamlet, in cottage and hall:
To our love of the lovely for ever appealing,
Of a Being who loves us sweet glimpses revealing;
Everywhere springing in garden and wild,
Ye solace the old man, ye gladden the child.
Ye bask in the sunlight, ye hide in the shade,
Ye light up the depths of the lone forest-glade,
And the deep recess of the mountain glen,
Away and afar from the haunts of men.
Ye garland the brows of the sun-kissed hills,
And gem the green margin of laughing rills;
Round the hamlet cottage ye love to bloom;
Ye give the zephyr his sweet perfume;
Ye lie at the foot of the ancient tree;
Your nectar invites the wandering bee;

Ye lure our feet to the wild-wood bowers;

Earth were sad without you, ye beautiful flowers.

What music is yours! How many a tone

Of finest accent is all your own!

There are sounds by the dull ears of man unheard,

In the lofty trees by the wild wind stirred;

In the gurgle of many a hidden fount,
Down in the dells which ye love to haunt,

FLOWERS.

They are making music the glad day long;
And for you the wild bee murmurs a song-
In joyance ye lavish your sweets on him,
And receive a rich guerdon, his musical hymn.
Oh! sweet is the lark's shrill carol at morn,
When she springs from her bed in the dewy corn;
And sweet the plaint from the turtle's nest,
And sweet the chant from the linnet's breast;
But sweetest of all is the night-bird's hymn,
That comes in the gleam of the twilight dim,
Like minstrelsy from another land,
From the golden harps of the angel band,
He singeth to rest each folding flower,
And sitteth your guardian for many an hour.
And the moon looketh down so soft and still,
As though she would shield ye from every ill;
And the sweet stars keep watch with glistening eyes,
'Till the fair young morn o'er the hills doth arise.
But there is a greater power above

Which watcheth o'er ye with tender love;

He who hath made the sun to blaze;

He who hath kindled the moon's pale rays;

He who hath stationed each sentinel star,

He careth for you all frail as ye are.

He sendeth the sunlight, he sendeth the shower;
He sendeth the dew in the tranquil hour;

He giveth ye fragrance and colours fair,

And circleth ye round with the freshening air.

Then what are your teachings, fair children of earth? To what thoughts in my spirit should ye give birth? What consciousness deep in this bosom of mine Should thrill in response to your touch divine? Oh! manifold feelings and fancies ye start; Thoughts sweet and solemn ye wake at my heart; Thoughts of our frailty, of death, and the tomb; Thoughts of renewal in beauty and bloom; Thoughts of a Father who careth for all, The mean and the lofty, the great and the small; Trust ye inspire in His provident care, And love of his goodness who made you so fair.

I have loved you ever ye beautiful flowers, As I've gathered you oft in my childish hours, Twining my garlands in sportive glee,

To wreathe the trunk of some ancient tree.

I have wished for the lot of the hamlet child,

To dwell among ye as fresh as wild;

For I said, "It must needs be a happy life

To dwell afar from the city's strife;

To wander all wild through the greenwood bowers,
And have you for companions, ye innocent flowers."

PALESTINA.

PALESTINA.

OH Palestina! sacred land, beloved by God of old,

The child of a chill northern clime would fain thy scenes behold,
Longs earnestly to breathe thy air, to move amid thy bowers,
Would give her all but once to gaze upon thy ruined towers,

Or upon those solemn mountains which encircle Salem round,
Upon that holy hill which once with God's bright fane was crowned,
Or to kneel in awe adoringly 'neath Olivet's dark shade,

Where He, the loving and the good, in sorrow bowed his head.

And the Jordan's turbid waters, I have seen them in my dreams,
With its restless wavelets glancing in the orient's golden beams,
I have listened all enraptured the wild music of its waves,
And have gathered star-like blossoms from the margin that it laves.

And thou great Lebanon, snow-crowned, majestic and sublime,
Untouched by the despoiler's hand, renowned through every clime,
With thy cedars, and thy white-lime rocks, and wilds so fresh and free,
It were worth an age of our cold clime to live an hour near thee.

O Palestina! heaven beloved, where God once spake with men,
Will e'er thy fallen shrines be raised? thy sons return again?
Will angels ever visit thee as oft they did of old-
Bright heralds from the eternal king on wings of glittering gold?
We know not, it may never be-but there will come a time
When Israel's children, scattered far and wide through every clime,
Shall all be gathered in one fold, and love one shepherd's voice,
Shall own their long rejected King, and 'neath his sway rejoice.