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Thanksgibing for flowers.

O FATHER! Lord ! The All-beneficent! I bless thy name, That thou hast mantled the green earth with flowers, Linking our hearts to nature ! By the love Of their wild blossoms, our young footsteps first Into her deep recesses are beguiledHer minster cells—dark glen and forest bower, Where, thrilling with its earliest sense of thee, Amidst the low, religious whisperings, The shivery leaf sounds of the solitude, The spirit wakes to worship, and is made Thy living temple. By the breath of flowers, Thou callest us, from city throngs and cares, Back to the woods, the birds, the mountain-streams, That sing of thee! back to free childhood's heart, Fresh with the dews of tenderness! Thou bidd'st The lilies of the field with placid smile Reprove man's feverish strivings, and infuse Through his worn soul a more unworldly life, With their soft, holy breath. Thou hast not left His purer nature, with its fine desires, Uncared for in this universe of thine ! The glowing rose attests it, the beloved Of poet-hearts, touch'd by their fervent dream. With spiritual light, and made a source Of heaven-ascending thoughts. E'en to faint age Thou lend'st the vernal bliss : the old man's eye Falls on the kindling blossoms, and his soul Remembers youth and love, and hopefully Turns unto thee, who call'st earth's buried germs From dust to splendour; as the mortal seed Shall, at thy summons, from the grave spring up To put on glory, to be girt with power, And filled with immortality Receive Thanks, blessings, love, for these, thy lavish boons, And, most of all, their heavenward influences, O thou that gavest us flowers !

MRS. HEMANS.

Your Voiceless Lips, 0 Flowersi are Libing Preachers. Your voiceless lips, O Flowers ! are living preachers,

Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book, Supply to my fancy numerous teachers,

From loneliest nook. 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 ! Ephemeral sages ! what instructors hoary,

For such a world of thought could furnish scope, Each fading calyx a memento mori,

Yet fount of hope ! Posthumous glories ! angel-like collection !

Upraised from seed or bulb interr'd 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 or divines,
My soul would find in flowers of thy ordaining,

Priests, sermons, shrines !

HORACE SMITH.

Flowers.
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing hrooks,
On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enameli'd eyes,
That on the green turf suck the honied showers,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet,
The glowing violet,
The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears :
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And daffodillies fill their cups with tears,
To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies.

MILTON.

The Sensitibe Plant. A SENSITIVE Plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew, And it open'd its fan-like leaves to the light, And closed them beneath the kisses of night. And the Spring arose on the garden fair, Like the Spirit of Love felt every where ; And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest. But none ever trembled and panted with bliss In the garden, the field, or the wilderness, Like a doe in the noontide with love's sweet want, As the companionless Sensitive Plant. The snow-drop, and then the violet, Arose from the ground with warm rain wet, And their breath was mix'd with fresh odour, sent From the turf, like the voice and the instrument, Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip tall, And varcissi, the fairest among them all, Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess, Till they die of their own dear loveliness ; And the Naiad-like lily of the vale, Whom youth makes so fair, and passion so pale, That the light of its tremulous bells is seen Through their pavilions of tender green; And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue, Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew Of music, so delicate, soft, and intense, It was felt like an odour within the sense ; And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest, Which unveil'd the depth of her glowing breast, Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air The soul of her beauty and love lay bare ; And the wand-like lily, which lifted up, As a Mænad, its moonlight-coloured cup, Till the fiery star, which is its eye, Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky;

And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose,
The sweetest flower for scent that blows;
And all rare blossoms from every clime
Grew in that garden in perfect prime.
And on the stream, whose inconstant bosom
Was prankt under boughs of embowering blossom,
With golden and green light slanting through
Their heaven of many a tangled hue,
Broad water-lilies lay tremulously,
And starry river-buds glimmer'd by,
And around them the soft stream did glide and dance
With a motion of sweet sound and radiance,
And the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss,
Which led through the garden along and across,
Some open at once to the sun and the breeze,
Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees,
Were all paved with daisies and delicate bells
As fair as the fabulous asphodels;
And flowerets which, drooping as day droop'd too,
Fell into pavilions, white, purple, and blue,
To roof the glow-worm from the evening dew.

SHELLEY,

Naisies.

THESE flow'rés white and red,
Such that men callen Daisies in our town;
To them have I so great affection,
As I said erst, when comen is the May,
That in my bed there daweth me no day
That I n'am up and walking in the mead
To see this flow'r against the sunué spread,
When it upriseth early by the morrow;
That blissful sight softeneth all my sorrow;
So glad am I when that I have presence
Of it, to doen it all reverence.

CHAUCER.

To a Daisy, on turning one down with the Plough.
WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thou'st met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure

Thy slender stem;
To spare thee now is past my pow'r,

Thou bonnie gem.
Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet!
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet

Wi' spreckled breast,
When upward-springing, blithe, to greet

The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth

Amid the storm ;
Scarce reard above the parent earth

Thy tender form.
The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield,
But thou, beneath the random bield

O'clod or stane,
Adorns the histie stibble-field,

Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawy bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head

In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed,

And low thou lies ! BURNS.

The Wind-flower.

LODGED in sunny cleft,
WHERE the cold breezes come not, blooms alone
The little wind-flower, whose just-open'd eye
Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at,
Startling the loiterer in the naked groves
With unexpected beauty, for the time
Of blossoms and green leaves is yet afar.

BRYANT.

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