Thou wert not, Solomon, in all thy glory, Arrayed,' the lilies cry, 'in robes like ours; How vain your grandeur! ah, how transitory Are human flowers!'

In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly artist, With which thou paintest Nature's wide-spread hall,

What a delightful lesson thou impartest
Of love to all!

Not useless are ye, flowers, though made for pleasure;

Blooming o'er field and wave, by day and night; From every source your sanction bids me treasure Harmless delight.

Posthumous glories-angel-like collection!
Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth,
Ye are to me a type of resurrection,

And second birth.

Were I, O God! in churchless lands remaining,
Far from all voice of teachers and divines,
My soul would find, in flowers of thy ordaining,
Priests, sermons, shrines!

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

WORDSWORTH.

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sat reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did nature link

The human soul that through me man; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

And 't is my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven is sent,
If such be nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?

THE SEASON OF FLOWERS.

MRS. HARRISON SMITH.

Glad earth a verdant altar rears,
Where spring and all her train appears;
Her balmy airs - her sunny hours-
Her freshening dews-her od'rous flowers;
Thence, fragrant exhalations rise,
Like holy incense to the skies.

The early birds in choral lay,

By love attuned, their homage pay;
Soft winds harmoniously unite

To breathe forth accents of delight;

While streamlets, bursting winter's chain, Seek their far way o'er mead and plain, Murmuring, as they glide along,

A cheerful and melodious song.

Small things material thus proclaim
The wise Creator's gracious aim,
And man be mute-nor fervent raise
His voice in gratitude and praise?
O, shall not human bosoms swell,
With raptures, language cannot tell;
In sympathetic ardor glow,
With all above and all below:

And in this gladsome season vie

With water, air, and earth, and sky?