In spring's green lap there blooms a flower
Whose cup imbibes each vernal shower,
That sips fresh nature's balmy dew,
Clad in her sweetest, purest blue;
Yet shines the ruddy eye of morning,
The shaggy woods brown shade adorning.
Simplest flowret! Child of May!
Though hid from the broad eye of day,
Doomed in the shade thy sweets to shed,
Unnoticed droop thy languid head:
Still nature's darling thou 'It remain;
She feeds thee with her softest rain;
Fills each sweet bud with honeyed tears,
With genial gales thy bosom cheers.
O, then unfold thy simple charms,
In yon deep thicket's sheltering arms,
Far from the fierce and sultry glare,
No heedless hand shall harm thee there;
Still, then, avoid the gaudy scene,
The flaunting sun, the embroidered green,
And bloom and fade with chaste reserve, unseen.
A Mother's love the richest gem of earth.
Her heart beat not with the fond impatience
Of her youth, when fancy weaved around her
Pathway richly promised joys. Her breast was
Stilled! impulsive joy, momentary bliss,
Were strangers to her bosom; for the loved
Of youth had passed to his resting-place, and
Left her widowed. The ties of earth save one
Were severed; and that one more sacred in
Its binding than the united strength of
Others. The early dead had left his boy,
His dark-eyed, noble boy the sure semblance
Of himself. The love which she had faithful
Given him, now clasped its tendrils, with all
The fervor of a mother's love, around
Her orphaned one. She loved him with a
Love, which only finds its deep endurance
In a mother's breast, a love which causes
Heaven's smile to come and rest on earth.
A mother's love; -it glows till death. Lives before life - with death dies not - but seems The very substance of immortal dreams.'
BLESSED BE GOD FOR FLOWERS.
Buggested by seeing my youngest child asleep, with wild flowers grasped in its hand.
Blesséd be God for flowers!
For the bright, gentle, holy thoughts, that breathe
From out their odorous beauty, like a wreath
Of sunshine on life's hours!
Hath fallen noontide sleep, my joyous bird:
And thro' thy parted lips the breath, scarce heard,
Comes like a summer sigh.
One rosy hand is thrown
Beneath thy rosier cheek: the other holds
A group of sweet field flowers, whose bloom unfolds
A freshness like thine own.
Around the fragrant prize,
With eager grasp thy little fingers close:
What are the dreams that haunt thy soft repose?
What radiance greets thine eyes?
For thou art smiling still;
Art thou yet wandering in the quiet woods,
Plucking th' expanded cups and bursting buds
At thine unfettered will?
Yes! thou wilt learn their power,
When, cherished not as now, thou stand 'st alone. Compassed by sweetly-saddening memories, thrown Round thee by leaf or flower!
Shapes thou no more may 'st see;
The household hearth-the heart-enlisted prayerAll thou hast loved, and lost, and treasured there, Where thy best thoughts must be.
Prize them, that when forgot
By all, their old familiar tints shall bring
Sweet thoughts of her, whose dirge the deep winds sing,
And whose love earth holds not!
Prize them, that through all hours
Thou hold 'st sweet commune with their beauty
And, rich in this, through many a future year,
Bless thou our God for flowers!
Or does some prophet voice,
Murmuring amidst thy dreams, instructive say, 'Prize well these flowers, for thou, beyond to-day, Shalt in their spells rejoice?'
What first inspired a bard of old to sing
Narcissus pining o'er the untainted spring?
In some delicious ramble he had found
A little space, with boughs all woven round;
And in the midst of all a clearer pool
Than e'er reflected in its pleasant cool
The blue sky, here and there serenely peeping,
Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping.
And on the bank a lonely flower he spied,
A meek and forlorn flower, with nought of pride,
Drooping its beauty o'er the watery clearness,
To woo its own sad image into nearness:
Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move,
But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love.
So while the poet stood in this sweet spot,
Some fainter gleamings o'er his fancy shot;
Nor was it long ere he had told the tale
Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo's vale.
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