The Lost Flower.

I saw the shining flower
Turn to the Sun-god's kiss,
With the graceful resignation
Of beauty bathed in bliss.
She followed him from morning,

O'er the woods and gilded streams,
Till he sank from sight at evening,
In the hour of mystic dreams.

In the night the Frost-king wooed her,
And though cold was his caress,
She was dazzled by the splendor
Of his regal form and dress.
In his diadem was many a gem,
And his robe of brilliant dye,

Flashed through the night, as through the storm
The rainbow gleams on high.

Well sped he in his wooing,-
The virgin flower was lost,
And her ruin lent new glory
To the demon-king of Frost.
Woe to the simple flower!

When next the Sun-god came,
She shrank before his ardent gaze,
And perished in her shame.

F. A. DURIVAGE.

The Anemone. To

I know a gentle flower that blows
When winter's chilling winds have fled;
And loth its beauty to disclose,

It often hides its modest head.

The careless eye may not perceive
This lowly flower so sweet and fair;
For me, howe'er, in wood or field,
None sweeter scents the morning air.

I meet it on my favorite walk,

And stop to view its simple charms, As bending on its slender stalk

It trusts to nature's fostering arms.

This gentle flower, whose modest grace
So oft has been a boon to me,

Though missed among more showy plants,

I often have compared to thee.

ANON.

Flowers.

Each leaflet is a tiny scroll
Inscribed with holy truth,

A lesson that around the heart
Should keep the dew of youth;
Bright missiles 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 heights,
The fissured rock they press,
The desert wild, with heat and sand,
Shares too their blessedness;
And whereso'er the weary heart
Turns in its dim despair,

The meek-eyed blossom upward looks,

Inviting it to prayer.

E. O. SMITH.

Mutability.

The flower that smiles to-day

To-morrow dies;

All that we wish to stay,

Tempts, and then flies:
What is this world's delight?
Lightning that mocks the night,
Brief even as bright.

Virtue, how frail it is!

Friendship too rare!

Love, how it sells poor bliss

For proud despair!

But we, though soon they fall,

Survive their joy and all

Which ours we call.

Whilst skies are blue and bright,

Whilst flowers are gay,

Whilst eyes that change ere night,

Make glad the day;

Whilst yet the calm hours creep,
Dream thou, and from thy sleep
Then wake to weep.

SHELLY.

Mother, Home and Heaven.

The sounds that fall on mortal ear
As dew drops pure at even,

That soothe the breast or start the tear,
Are Mother, Home and Heaven.

A Mother,

sweetest name on earth!

We lisp it on the knee,

And idolize its sacred worth

In manhood's infancy.

A Home,-that paradise below,
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Where hallowed joys perennial flow,

By calm sequestered bowers.

And Heaven,

-the port of endless peace,

The haven of the soul,

When life's corroding cares shall cease

Like sweeping waves to roll.

Oh! weep not, then, though cruel time
The chain of love has riven;
To every link, in yonder clime,
Re-union shall be given.

Oh! fall they not on mortal ear
As dew drops pure at even,

To soothe the breast or start the tear,-
A Mother, Home and Heaven?

ANON.