Precepts of Flowers.

"Then," said the rose, with deepened glow, "On me another grace bestow."

The spirit paused, in silent thought,

"What grace was there that flower had not!"
'Twas but a moment-o'er the rose

A veil of moss the angel throws,
And, robed in nature's simplest weed,
Could there a flower that rose exceed?

237

ANON.

PRECEPTS OF FLOWERS.

LOWERS of the field, how meet ye seem

Man's frailty to portray,

Blooming so fair in morning's beam,

Passing at eve away;

Teach this, and, oh! though brief your reign,
Sweet flowers, ye shall not live in vain.

Go, form a monitory wreath

For youth's unthinking brow;

Go, and to busy mankind breathe

What most he fears to know;

Go, strew the path where age doth tread,

And tell him of the silent dead.

But whilst to thoughtless ones and gay,
Ye breathe these truths severe,
To those who droop in pale decay,
Have ye no words of cheer?
Oh, yes! ye weave a double spell,

And death and life betoken well.

Go, then, where wrapped in fear and gloom,
Fond hearts and true are sighing,
And deck with emblematic bloom

The pillow of the dying;

And softly speak, nor speak in vain,

Of the long sleep and broken chain;

And say, that He who from the dust
Recalls the slumbering flower,

Will surely visit those who trust

His mercy and His power;

Will mark where sleep their peaceful clay,

And roll, ere long, the stone away.

Blackwood's Magazine.

SONG OF THE WINTER TREE.

HAT a happy life was mine, when the sunbeams used to twine

Like golden threads about my summer suit!

When my warp and woof of green let enough of light between, Just to dry the dew that lingered at my root.

What troops of friends I had when my form was richly clad, And I was fair 'mid fairest things of earth :

Good company came round, and I heard no rougher sound Than childhood's laugh, in bold and leaping mirth.

The old man sat him down to note my emerald crown;
And rest beneath my branches thick and bright:
The squirrel on my spray kept swinging all the day,
And the song-birds chattered to me through the night.

The dreaming poet laid his soft harp in my shade,
And sung my beauty, chorused by the bee;
The village maiden came, to read her own dear name,
Carved on my bark, and bless the broad green tree.

Song of the Winter Tree.

239

[wreathed

The merry music breathed, while the bounding dancers
In mazy windings round my giant stem;
And the joyous words they poured, as they trod the chequered
sward;

Told the green tree was a worshipped thing by them.

Oh! what troops of friends I had, to make my strong heart glad; What kind ones answered to my rustling call!

I was hailed with smiling praise, in the glowing summer days; And the beautiful green tree was loved by all.

But the bleak wind hath swept by, and the gray cloud dinımed My latest leaf has left my inmost bough; [the sky; I creak in grating tones, like the skeleton's bleached bones; And not a footstep seeks the old tree now.

I stand at morning's dawn, the cheerless and forlorn;
The sunset comes and finds me still alone;

The mates who shared my bloom, have left me in my gloom;
Birds, poet, dancers, children-all are gone.

The hearts that turned this way, when I stood in fine array,
Forsake me now, as though I ceased to be;

I win no painter's gaze, I hear no minstrel's lays;
The very nest falls from the leafless tree.

But the kind and merry train will be sure to come again,
With love and smiles as ready as of yore;

I must only wait to wear my robe so rich and fair,
And they will throng as they have thronged before.

Oh, ye who dwell in pride with parasites beside,

Only lose your summer green leaves and ye'll see, That the courtly friends will change into things all cold and And forget ye, as they do the winter tree!

[strange, ELIZA COOK.

THE LINDEN TREE.

ERE'S a song for thee-of the linden tree!
A song of the silken lime!

There is no other tree so pleaseth me,

No other so fit for rhyme.

When I was a boy, it was all my joy

To rest in its scented shade,

When the sun was high, and the river nigh

A musical murmur made:

When, floating along like a winged song,
The traveller-bee would stop,

And choose for his bower the lime-tree flower,
And drink-to the last sweet drop.

When the evening star stole forth, afar,
And the gnats flew round and round,
I sought for a rhyme, beneath the lime,
Or dreamed on the grassy ground.

Ah!-years have fled; and the linden, dead,
Is a brand on the cottier's floor;
And the river creeps through its slimy deeps,
And youth-is a thought of yore!

Yet they live again, in the dreamer's brain :
As deeds of love and wrong,

Which pass with a sigh, and seem to die,

Survive in the poet's song.

BARRY CORNWALL

The Cuckoo.

THE SANDAL TREE.

H! many a lesson we may learn,

E'en from the flowers and trees

That bloom beside the gentle burn,

And bend to evening breeze.

The modest lily of the vale
Whispers of humble worth;

The sandal in the Indian dale
May teach the sons of earth.

When wounded in return it throws
A balmy fragrance round,

And perfumes every breeze that blows
Across the Indian ground.

Would men but learn of that fair tree

The gentle law of love,

Soon this fair earth of ours would be

More like our home above.

ΑΝΟΝ.

241

THE CUCKOO.

HE bee is humming in the sun,

The yellow cowslip springs;

And hark! from yonder woodland's side

Again the cuckoo sings.

Cuckoo, cuckoo; no other note

She sings from day to day;
But I, though a poor cottage girl,
Can work, and read, and pray.