Such fate to suffering worth is given, Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven, Even thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight, PRECEPTS OF FLOWERS. FLOWERS of the field, how meet ye seem Blooming so fair in morning's beam, Teach this, and, oh! though brief your reign, Go, form a monitory wreath For youth's unthinking brow; Go, and to busy mankind breathe Go, strew the path where age doth tread, But whilst to thoughtless ones and gay, Go, then, where wrapt in fear and gloom, And softly speak, nor speak in vain, ; And say, that He who from the dust Will mark where sleeps their peaceful clay, ZINE. BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE. THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. THY fruit full well the schoolboy knows, So, put thou forth thy small white rose; Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow For dull the eye, the heart is dull, That cannot feel how fair, Amid all beauty beautiful, Thy tender blossoms are! How delicate thy gauzy frill! How rich thy branchy stem! How soft thy voice when woods are still, While silent showers are falling slow, A sweet air lifts the little bough, The violet by the mossed gray stone Hath laid her weary head; But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring, In all their beauteous power, The fresh green days of life's fair spring, And boyhood's blossomy hour. Scorned bramble of the brake! once more To gad with thee the woodlands o'er, THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. FAIR flower, that lapt in lowly glade Art thou that "lily of the field,” Which, when the Saviour sought to shield But not the less, sweet springtide's flower, Our western valley's humbler child; What though nor care nor art be thine, Of thy twin leaves th' embowered screen Thy Eden-breathing smell ;* Instinct with life thy fibrous root, And fills thy veins with verdant juice, The triple cell, the twofold seed, Who forms thee thus with unseen hand, And willed thee thus to be, But the Great God is He? Omnipotent to work his will; Still provident, with sleepless care "There is no God," the senseless say:- The mourner breathes his anxious thought- Sweet lily of the vale. Yes! He who made and fosters thee, Nor deems she that his guardian care FIELD NATURALIST'S MAGAZINE. THE NIGHT BLOOMING CERES. How coyly thou the golden hours dost number! Not all thy splendour can thy love beguile; Vainly the morning zephyrs fan the slumber, And morn's rich glory woos thee for a smile. For thou dost blossom when cool shadows hover, And dews are falling through the dusky air; When with new fervour dreams the happy lover, And winds grow solemn with the voice of prayer. While all around thee earth's bright things are sleeping, Gay lilies fade, and droops the crimson rose, Fresh is the vigil thou alone art keeping, And sweet the charms the virgin leaves disclose. Thus in the soul is deep love ever hidden, Thus noble minds will fondly shun the throne, And at their chosen time start forth unbidden, With peerless valour, or undying song. Thus the true heart its mystic leaves concealing, |