As noiseless as the sun's first beams,
It vanished with the day;

But the waving fields told where it fell
When the dew had passed away.

Lord, make me like the gentle dew,
That other hearts may prove,
E'en through Thy feeblest messenger,
Thy ministry of love.

From "The Brook in the Way."

LESSONS FROM TREES AND FLOWERS.

Lessons from Flowers.

HE welcome flowers are blossoming,
In joyous troops revealed;

And lift their dewy buds and bells,
In garden, mead, and field.
They lurk in every sunless path,
Where forest children tread;
And dot, like stars, the sacred turf
Which lies above the dead.

They sport with every playful wind
Which stirs the blooming trees;
And laugh on every fragrant bush,
All full of toiling bees:

From the green marge of lake and stream,
Fresh vale and mountain sod,
They look in gentle glory forth,—
The pure, sweet flowers of God.

The Ivy.

H, how could fancy crown with thee, In ancient times, the god of wine, And bid thee at the banquet be Companion of the vine?

Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound Of revelry hath long been o'er,

Where songs' full notes once peal'd around, But now are heard no more.

The Roman on his battle-plains,

Where Kings before his eagles bent, Entwin'd thee, with exulting strains,

Around the victor's tent;

Yet there, though fresh in glossy green
Triumphantly the bough might wave,
Better thou lov'st the silent scene
Around the victor's grave.

Where sleep the sons of ages flown,
The bards and heroes of the past,
Where through the halls of glory gone
Murmurs the wintry blast;

Where years are hastening to efface

Each record of the grand and fair,

Thou, in thy solitary grace,

Wreath of the tomb, art there!

Thou o'er the shrines of fallen gods,

On classic plains dost mantling spread, And veil the desolate abodes

And cities of the dead; Deserted palaces of Kings,

Arches of triumph, long o'erthrown, And all once-glorious earthly things, At length are thine alone.

Oh, many a temple, once sublime,
Beneath the blue Italian sky,
Hath nought of beauty left by time,

Save thy wild tapestry;

And, rear'd 'midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine To wave where banners wav'd of yore,— O'er mouldering towers, by lovely Rhine, Cresting the rocky shore.

High from the fields of air look down
Those eyries of a vanish'd race,-
Homes of the mighty, whose renown
Hath pass'd, and left no trace;
But thou art there! thy foliage bright,

Unchang'd the mountain-storm can brave,—

Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height,

And deck the humblest grave.

The breathing forms of Parian stone
That rise round grandeur's marble halls,
The vivid hues by painting thrown
Rich o'er the glowing walls,
Th' Acanthus on Corinthian fanes

In sculptur'd beauty waving fair,—
These perish all: and what remains?
Thou, thou alone, art there!

'Tis still the same: where'er we tread The wrecks of human power we see,— The marvels of all ages fled,

Left to decay and thee!

And still let man his fabrics rear,—

August in beauty, grace, and strength; Days pass thou, Ivy, never sere,

And all is thine at length !

MRS. HEMANS.