God saw how much of woe, and grief, and

care,

Man's faults and follies on the earth would make,

And the sweet singer for his creature's sake, He sent to warble wildly everywhere,

And by thy voice our souls to love to wake. Oh, blessed wandering spirit! unto thee Pure hearts are knit as unto things too fair, And good and beautiful of earth to be, Linnet-wild linnet!

PRECEPTS OF FLOWERS.
Anon.

FLOWERS 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, wrapt 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 e'er long the stone away.

THE POOR MAN SPEAKETH ABOUT

TREES.

From Verses by a Poor Man.

How pleasant the waving trees,
The oak, the ash, the birch;
How beautiful the old yew seems
That grows beside the church,

And those tall linden trees, whose boughs
Bring shadows o'er the dead,
Making a gloomy canopy

Over their cold low bed.

The firs that crown the lofty hills
Like giants in their pride;
Or like a darkling thunder cloud,
At even on their side;

O yes! they seem to me to point
Upwards, and mock the skies;
So high their dark plumes wave in air,
So high their spears arise.

The alder tree grows near some stream,
And the yellow willow slender,
O'er which the large palm throws his arms
As if he would defend her.

The silky catkins oft we took
Delighted from the twig,

In childish days and climbed for them,
The trees to us so big.

We filled our little pockets full,
We loved such pretty things;
Oh, childhood ever flees away,
Fast on its golden wings.
And then the fruitful alder tree
Of whose small juicy berry,

The country people make sweet wine,
To drink and to be merry.

I love the shady sycamore

With its leaves so large and round,
That lie in dull November hours
Thick-spotted on the ground.
And then the trees in some large wood
Far from the noise of towns,
Wearing in autumn time their leaves,
Like variegated crowns.

The hazel in the hedge and copse,
The holly in the glen,
They beautify this home below,
Given by God to men.

Oh! grant me places where the trees
Are scattered thickly round;

Where woods are mixed with waterfalls,
And rocks rise from the ground.

Trees are the things that children love,
And men delight to see;

And they bring a thousand memories

Of bygone days to me.

THE VILLAGE FUNERAL.

Anon.

It was a lonely hamlet where the trees Waved in green beauty o'er the whitewashed cot;

Deepening the shade as the light summer breeze Clustered the boughs, so beams of sun came

not;

Beneath smiled cottage flowers-'midst all a brook

Ran hurrying off to a sequestered nook;

Then bursting forth beside a rose-wreath'd
grot,

Mirror'd its beauties-for to it were given
To mix the flowers of earth and clouds of

heaven.

All seemed enchantment in the flowery dell, Yet all was solemn silence-no glad thrill Of children's voices, breathing forth the spell Of hope and early life-all, all was still; And yet 'twas summer's bright unclouded

noon,

When May's pale flowers gave place to those of June;

'Midst which the roving bee ranged forth at will;

At intervals was heard the cuckoo's tone,
By mimic schoolboy gaily made his own.

Lo! on the ear peal'd forth another sound,
And slow and time-pac'd came the funeral
tread,

And one, the bier with fresh-blown roses crown'd,

As though pale silk waved o'er the youthful

dead;

Yet ill did the dark pall accord with flowers, And the bright sun of June's unclouded hours;