They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder-sound-
The boy-oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea!—

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part;
But the noblest thing which perished there
Was that young faithful heart!

THE DIAL OF FLOWERS.'

'TWAS a lovely thought to mark the hours
As they floated in light away,
By the opening and the folding flowers,
That laugh to the summer's day.

Thus had each moment its own rich hue,
And its graceful cup and bell,

In whose coloured vase might sleep the dew.
Like a pearl in an ocean-shell.

To such sweet signs might the time have flowed
In a golden current on,

Ere from the garden, man's first abode,

The glorious guests were gone.

So might the days have been brightly told—
Those days of song and dreams-—

When shepherds gathered their flocks of old
By the blue Arcadian streams.

So in those isles of delight, that rest
Far off in a breezeless main,

Which many a bark, with a weary quest,
Has sought, but still in vain.

Yet is not life, in its real flight,

Marked thus-even thus-on earth,

By the closing of one hope's delight,
And another's gentle birth?

Oh! let us live, so that flower by flower,
Shutting in turn, may leave

This dial was, I believe, formed by Linnæus, and marked the hours by the opening and closing, at regular intervals, of the flowers arranged in it.

A lingering still for the sunset hour,
A charm for the shaded eve.

OUR DAILY PATHS.1

"Nought shall prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith that all which we behold
Is full of blessings."

WORDSWORTH.

THERE'S beauty all around our paths, if but our watchful eyes
Can trace it midst familiar things, and through their lowly guise;
We may find it where a hedgerow showers its blossoms o'er our
way,

Or a cottage window sparkles forth in the last red light of day.

We may find it where a spring shines clear beneath an aged tree, With the foxglove o'er the water's glass, borne downwards by the

bee;

Or where a swift and sunny gleam on the birchen stems is thrown, As a soft wind playing parts the leaves, in copses green and lone.

We may find it in the winter boughs, as they cross the cold blue sky,

While soft on icy pool and stream their penciled shadows lie,

When we look upon their tracery, by the fairy frost-work bound, Whence the flitting redbreast shakes a shower of crystals to the ground.

Yes! beauty dwells in all our paths-but sorrow too is there : How oft some cloud within us dims the bright, still summer air!

This little poem derives an additional interest from being affectingly associated with a name no less distinguished than that of the late Mr. Dugald Stewart. The admiration he always expressed for Mrs. Hemans's poetry, was mingled with regret that she so generally made choice of melancholy subjects; and on one occasion, he sent her, through a mutual friend, a message suggestive of his wish that she would employ her fine talents in giving more consolatory views of the ways of Providence, thus infusing comfort and cheer into the bosoms of her readers, in a spirit of Christian philosophy, which, he thought, would be more consonant with the pious mind and loving heart displayed in every line she wrote, than dwelling on what was painful and depressing, however beautifully and touchingly such subjects might be treated of. This message was faithfully transmitted, and almost by return of post, Mr. Hemans (who was then residing in Wales) sent to the kind friend to whom it had been forwarded, the poem of "Our Daily Paths," requesting it might be given to Mr. Stewart, with an assurance of her gratitude for the interest he took in her writings, and alleging as the reason of the mournful strain which pervaded them, "that a cloud hung over her life which she could not always rise above."

The letter reached Mr. Stewart just as he was stepping into the carriage, to leave his country residence (Kinneil House, the property of the Duke of Hamilton) for Edinburgh-the last time, alas! his presence was ever to gladen that happy home, as his valuable life was closed very shortly afterwards. The poem was read to him by his daughter, on his way to Edinburgh, and he expressed himself in the highest degree charmed and gratified with the result of his suggestions; and some of the lines which pleased him more particularly were often repeated to him during the few remaining weeks of his life.

When we carry our sick hearts abroad amidst the joyous things,
That through the leafy places glance on many-coloured wings.

With shadows from the past we fill the happy woodland shades,
And a mournful memory of the dead is with us in the glades ;
And our dream-like fancies lend the wind an echo's plaintive tone
Of voices, and of melodies, and of silvery laughter gone.

But are we free to do even thus-to wander as we will,
Bearing sad visions through the grove, and o'er the breezy hill?
No! in our daily paths lie cares, that ofttimes bind us fast,
While from their narrow round we see the golden day fleet past.

They hold us from the woodlark's haunts, and violet dingles, back, And from all the lovely sounds and gleams in the shining river's track;

They bar us from our heritage of spring-time, hope, and mirth, And weigh our burdened spirits down with the cumbering dust of earth.

Yet should this be? Too much, too soon, despondingly we yield! A better lesson we are taught by the lilies of the field!

A sweeter by the birds of heaven—which tell us, in their flight, Of One that through the desert air for ever guides them right.

Shall not this knowledge calm our hearts, and bid vain conflicts cease?

Ay, when they commune with themselves in holy hours of peace And feel that by the lights and clouds through which our pathway lies,

By the beauty and the grief alike, we are training for the skies!

THE CROSS IN THE WILDERNESS.

SILENT and mournful sat an Indian chief,
In the red sunset, by a grassy tomb;

His eyes, that might not weep, were dark with grief,
And his arms folded in majestic gloom;

And his bow lay unstrung, beneath the mound
Which sanctified the gorgeous waste around.

For a pale cross above its greensward rose,
Telling the cedars and the pines that there
Man's heart and hope had struggled with his woes,
And lifted from the dust a voice of prayer.

Now all was hushed-and eve's last splendour shone
With a rich sadness on the attesting stone.

There came a lonely traveller o'er the wild,

And he, too, paused in reverence by that grave,

Asking the tale of its memorial, piled

Between the forest and the lake's bright wave;

Page 377.