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Convolvulus Arvensis.


THE bird that soars on highest wing
Builds on the ground her lowly nest;
And she that doth most sweetly sing
Sings in the shade when all things rest:
In lark and nightingale we see
What honor hath humility.


When Mary chose the "better part,"
She meekly sat at Jesus' feet;
And Lydia's gently-opened heart

Was made for God's own temple meet:
Fairest and best adorned is she
Whose emblem is humility.

The saint that wears heaven's brightest crown
In deepest adoration bends;

The weight of glory bends him down

The most when most his soul ascends:
Nearest the throne itself must be
The footstool of humility.


Here is a precious jewel I have found
Among the filth and rubbish of the world.
I'll stoop for it, but when I wear it here,
Set on my forehead like the morning star,
The world may wonder, but it will not laugh.




I NE'ER will weep again!

I will meet fate with an unblenching eye;
For better far in proud contempt to die
Than idly talk of pain.



Can I not bear all things?

Who talks of weakness to a soul like mine?

Love, hope, pity, sorrow, I resign,

And all that fortune brings.

In lonely strength I stand,

Unmoved though earthquakes open at my feet;
Though storms of malice on my bosom beat,
I can their rage withstand.

My sole resources in the path I trod
Were these my bark- my sword- my love—
my God.

The last I left in youth: he leaves me now;
And man but works his will to lay me low.
I have no thought to mock his throne with prayer
Wrung from the coward crouching of despair;
It is enough I breathe and I can bear.





O FOR thy wings, thou dove,

Now sailing by with sunshine on thy breast!
That, borne like thee above,

I too might flee away, and be at rest.

O, to some cool recess,

Take, take me with thee on the summer wind; Leaving the weariness

And all the fever of this world behind.

The aching and the void

Within the heart whereunto none reply,
The early hopes destroyed,

Bird, bear me with thee through the sunny sky.


Art thou a weary soul, and dost thon cry
For rest? Wait, and thou soon shalt have
That thou dost crave,

For death is real-the GRAVE no mockery.


THERE are few natural objects more poetical in their general associations than flowers; nor has there ever been a poet, simple or sublime, who has not adorned his verse with these specimens of nature's cunning workmanship. From the majestic sunflower, towering above her sisters of the garden, and faithfully turning to welcome the god of day, to the little humble and well-known weed that is said to close its crimson eye before impending showers, there is scarcely one flower which may not, from its loveliness, its perfume, its natural situation, or its classical association, be considered highly poetical.

As the welcome messenger of spring, the snowdrop claims our first regard; and countless are the lays in which the praises of this little modest flower are sung. The contrast it presents of green and white (ever the most pleasing of contrasts to the human eye) may be one reason why mankind agree in their admiration of its simple beauties; but a far more powerful reason is the delightful association by which it is connected with the idea of returning spring; the conviction that the vegetable world through the tedious winter months has not been dead, but sleeping; and that long nights, fearful storms, and chilling blasts have a limitation and a bound assigned them, and must in their

appointed time give place to the fructifying and genial influence of spring. Perhaps we have murmured (for what is there in the ordinations of Providence at which man will not dare to murmur?) at the dreariness of winter. Perhaps we have felt the rough blast too piercing to accord with our artificial habits. Perhaps we have thought long of the melting of the snow that impeded our noonday walk. But it vanishes at last; and there, beneath its white coverlet, lies the delicate snowdrop, so pure and pale, so true an emblem of hope, and trust, and confidence, that it might teach a lesson to the desponding, and show the useless and inactive how invaluable are the stirrings of that energy that can work out its purpose in secret, and under oppression, and be ready in the fulness of time to make that purpose manifest and complete. The snowdrop teaches also another lesson. It marks out the progress of time. We cannot behold it without feeling that another spring has come, and immediately our thoughts recur to the events which have occurred since last its fairy bells were expanded. We think of those who were near and dear to us then. It is possible they may never be near again; it is equally possible they may be dear no longer. Memory is busy with the past; until anticipation takes up the chain of thought, and we conjure up, and at last shape out in characters of hope, a long succession of chances and changes to fill up the revolving

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