Humility.

THE loaded bee the lowest flies,
The richest pearl the deepest lies;
The stalk the most replenished,
Doth bow the most its modest head;
And thus humility we find
The mark of every master mind;—
The highest-gifted lowliest bends,
And merit meekest condescends,
And shuns the fame that fools adore-
The puff that bids a feather soar.

ANONYMOUS.

Feast of Roses.

AND all is ecstasy; for now
The valley holds its feast of roses,—
That joyous time, when pleasures pour
Profusely round, and in their shower
Hearts open like the season's rose.

MOORE.

Love of Flowers.

SHE loved all simple flowers that sprung
In grove or sun-lit dell,

And of each streak and varied hue,
A meaning deep would tell;
For her a language was impressed
On every leaf that grew,
And lines revealing brighter worlds
That seraph fingers drew.

Each tiny leaf became a scroll
Inscribed with holy truth,
A lesson that around the heart
Should keep the dew of youth;
Bright missals from angelic throngs
In every by-way left:-

How were the earth of glory shorn,
Were it of flowers bereft!

They tremble on the Alpine height;
The fissured rock they press;
The desert wild, with heat and sand,
Shares too, their blessedness;

And wheresoe'er the weary heart
Turns in its dim despair,

The meek-eyed blossom upward looks,
Inviting it to prayer.

MRS. E. O. SMITH.

Wedded Love.

BUT happy they!-the happiest of their kind,
Whom gentle stars unite; and in one fate
Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings
blend.

"Tis not the coarser tie of human laws,
Unnatural of, and foreign to the mind,
That binds their peace,-but harmony itself,
Attuning all their passions into love;

Where friendship full exerts her softest power,
Perfect esteem, enlivened by desire
Ineffable, and sympathy of soul;

Thought meeting thought, and will preventing will,

With boundless confidence ;-for nought but love

Can answer love, and render bliss secure.

THOMSON.

Autumn.

THE beech-nut falling from its opened burr Gives a sharp rattle, and the locust's song Rising and swelling shrill, then pausing short, Rings like a trumpet. Distant woods and hills Are full of echoes, and all sounds that strike Upon the hollow air, let loose their tongues. The ripples, creeping through the matted grass, Drip on the ear, and the far partridge-drum Rolls like low thunder. The last butterfly, Like a wing'd violet, floating in the meek Pink-colored sunshine, sinks his velvet feet Within the pillared mullin's delicate down, And shuts and opens his unruffled fans. Lazily wings the crow, with solemn croak, From tree-top on to tree-top. Feebly chirps The grasshopper, and the spider's tiny clock Ticks from its crevice.

A. B. STREET.

The Widow's Mite.

AMID the pompous crowd

Of rich admirers came a humble form-
A widow, meek as poverty could make
Her children. With a look of sad content
Her mite within the treasure-heap she cast-
Then timidly as bashful twilight, stole
From out the temple. But her lowly gift
Was witnessed by an eye whose mercy views
In motive, all that consecrates a deed

To goodness: so He blessed the widow's mite
Beyond the gift abounding wealth bestowed.
Thus it is, Lord, with thee; the HEART is thine,
And all the world of hidden action there,
Works in thy sight, like waves beneath the

sun

Conspicuous!--and a thousand nameless acts That lurk in lowly secresy, and die

Unnoticed, like the trodden flowers that fall Beneath the proud man's foot, to thee are known,

And written with a sunbeam in the book

Of life, where Mercy fills the brightest page.

MONTGOMERY.