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and poetical people, they were commonly regarded in another and higher sense, they were the favorite symbols of the beauty and the fragility of life. Man is compared to the flower of the field, and it is added, the grass withereth, the flower fadeth.'
But of all the poetry ever drawn from flowers, none is so beautiful, none is so sublime, none is so imbued with that very spirit in which they were made as that of Christ. 'And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not neither do they spin, and yet, I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory, was not arrayed like one of these. Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith!'
The sentiment built upon this, entire dependance on the goodness of the Creator, is one of the lights of our existence, and could only have been uttered by Christ; but we have here also the expression of the very spirit of beauty in which flowers were created; a spirit so boundless and overflowing that it delights to enliven and adorn,with these luxuriant creatures of sunshine, the solitary places of the earth; to scatter them by myriads over the very desert where no man is; on the wilderness where there is no man;' sending rain, to satisfy the desolate and waste ground, and to cause the bud of the tender herb to spring forth.'
In our confined notions, we are often led to wonder why
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
why beauty, and flowers, and fruit, should be scattered so exuberantly where there are none to enjoy them. But the thoughts of the Almighty are not as our thoughts. He sees them; he doubtlessly delights to behold the beauty of his handiworks, and rejoices in that tide of glory which he has caused to flow wide through the universe.
We know not, either, what spiritual eyes besides may behold them; for pleasant is the belief, that
Myriads of spiritual creatures walk the earth.
And how often does the gladness of uninhabited lands refresh the heart of the solitary traveller! When the distant and sea-tired voyager suddenly descries the blue mountaintops, and the lofty crest of the palm-tree, and makes some
green and pleasant island, where the verdant and blossoming forest-boughs wave in the spicy gale; where the living waters leap from the rocks, and millions of new and resplendent flowers brighten the fresh sward, what then is the joy of his heart!
To Omnipotence creation costs not an effort, but to the desolate and the weary, how immense is the happiness thus prepared in the wilderness! Who does not recollect the exultation of Vaillant over a flower in the torrid wastes of Africa? A magnificent lily, which, growing on the banks of a river, filled the air far around with its delicious fragrance, and, as he observes, had been respected by all the animals of the district, and seemed defended even by its beauty.
Bring Flowers.-MRS. HEMANS.
BRING flowers, young flowers, for the festal board,
Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path-
Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell,
And a dream of his youth-bring him flowers, wild flowers!
Her place is now by another's side
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride!
Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed,
For this through its leaves hath the white-rose burst,
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours,
Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer,
With a voice of promise they come and part,
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours,
They break forth in glory-bring flowers, bright flowers!
The Burial Place.-BRYANT.
EREWHILE, on England's pleasant shores, our sires
The willow, a perpetual mourner, drooped;
Wet at its planting with maternal tears,
pages 31-42 miring
'Tis a sweet stream; and so, 't is true, are all, That undisturbed, save by the harmless brawl Of mimic rapid or slight waterfall,
Pursue their way
By mossy bank, and darkly waving wood,
But yet there's something in its humble rank,
There's much in its wild history, that teems
Havoc has been upon its peaceful
And blood has dropped there, like the drops of rain,
Filled from the reeds that grew on yonder hill,
Here, say old men, the Indian Magi made
Here Philip came, and Miantonimo,
And asked about their fortunes long ago,
As Saul to Endor, that her witch might show
And here the black fox roved, that howled and shook His thick tail to the hunters, by the brook
Where they pursued their game, and him mistook
For earthly fox;
Thinking to shoot him like a shaggy bear,
Such are the tales they tell. 'Tis hard to rhyme
That few have heard of; but it is a theme
And one day I may tune my rye-straw reed,
I ASKED an Aged Man, a man of cares,
I asked the aged Venerable Dead,
Sages who wrote, and warriors who have bled: From the cold grave a hollow murmur flowed, 'Time sowed the seed we reap in this abode.'
I asked a Dying Sinner, ere the tide
Of life had left his veins: Time,' he replied-
I asked the Golden Sun and Silver Spheres,
I asked the Seasons in their annual round,
"T is folly's loss, and virtue's highest prize.'
I asked a Spirit Lost; but, oh! the shriek