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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.'

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In our confined notions, we are often led to wonder why

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air;

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,
To wreathe the cup ere the wine is poured;
Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and vale,
Their breath floats out on the southern gale,
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose,
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows.

Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path-
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath!
He comes with the spoils of nations back,
The vines lie crushed in his chariot's track,
The turf looks red where he won the day-
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way!

Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell,
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell;
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky,
And the bright world shut from his languid eye;
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours,

And a dream of his youth-bring him flowers, wild flowers!
Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!
They were born to blush in her shining hair.
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth,
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth,


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,
A crown for the brow of the early dead!

For this through its leaves hath the white-rose burst,
For this in the woods was the violet nursed.

Though they smile in vain for what once was ours,
They are love's last gift-bring ye flowers, pale flowers!

Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer,
They are nature's offering, their place is there!
They speak of hope to the fainting heart,

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
Left not their churchyards unadorned with shades
Or blossoms; and indulgent to the strong
And natural dread of man's last home, the grave,
Its frost and silence-they disposed around,
To soothe the melancholy spirit that dwelt
Too sadly on life's close, the forms and hues
Of vegetable beauty.-There the yew,
Green even amid the snows of winter, told
Of immortality, and gracefully

The willow, a perpetual mourner, drooped;
And there the gadding woodbine crept about,
And there the ancient ivy. From the spot,
Where the sweet maiden, in her blossoming years
Cut off, was laid with streaming eyes, and hands
That trembled as they placed her there, the rose
Sprung modest, on bowed stalk, and better spoke
Her graces, than the proudest monument.
And children set about their playmate's grave
The pansy.
On the infant's little bed,

Wet at its planting with maternal tears,
Emblem of early sweetness, early death,

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Salmon River.-BRAINARD.

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,
By rock, that, since the deluge, fixed has stood,
Showing to sun and moon their crisping flood
By night and day.

But yet there's something in its humble rank,
Something in its pure wave and sloping bank,
Where the deer sported, and the young fawn drank
With unscared look;

There's much in its wild history, that teems
With all that's superstitious, and that seems
To match our fancy and eke out our dreams,
In that small brook.

Havoc has been upon its peaceful


And blood has dropped there, like the drops of rain,
The corn grows o'er the still graves of thy slain;
And many a quiver,

Filled from the reeds that grew on yonder hill,
Has spent itself in carnage. Now 't is still,
And whistling ploughboys oft their runlets fill
From Salmon river.

Here, say old men, the Indian Magi made
Their spells by moonlight; or beneath the shade
That shrouds sequestered rock, or dark'ning glade,
Or tangled dell.

Here Philip came, and Miantonimo,

And asked about their fortunes long ago,

As Saul to Endor, that her witch might show

Old Samuel.

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,
And his soft peltry, stripped and dressed, to wear,
Or lay a trap, and from his quiet lair
Transfer him to a box.

Such are the tales they tell. 'Tis hard to rhyme
About a little and unnoticed stream,

That few have heard of; but it is a theme
I chance to love:

And one day I may tune my rye-straw reed,
And whistle to the note of many a deed
Done on this river, which, if there be need,
I'll try to prove.



I ASKED an Aged Man, a man of cares,
Wrinkled, and curved, and white with hoary hairs:
Time is the warp of life,' he said, 'O tell
The young, fair, the gay, to weave it well!'

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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

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Of life had left his veins: Time,' he replied-
'I've lost it! Ah, the treasure!' —and he died.

I asked the Golden Sun and Silver Spheres,
Those bright Chronometers of days and years:
They answered, 'Time is but a meteor glare,
And bids us for Eternity prepare.'

I asked the Seasons in their annual round,
Which beautify and desolate the ground;
And they replied (no oracle more wise)

"T is folly's loss, and virtue's highest prize.'

I asked a Spirit Lost; but, oh! the shriek
That pierced my soul! I shudder while I speak.

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