In the sweet-scented pictures, Heavenly Artist! With which thou paintest Nature's widespread hall,

What a delightful lesson thou impartest

Of love to all!

Not useless are ye, flowers! though made for pleasure;

Blooming o'er field and wave, by day and night,

From every source your sanction bids me treasure Harmless delight.

Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary For such a world of thought could furnish scope?

Each fading calyx a memento mori,

Yet font of hope.

Posthumous glories! angel-like collection! Upraised from seed or bulb interr'd in earth, Ye are to me a type of resurrection,

And second birth.

Were I in churchless solitudes remaining,
Far from all voice of teachers and divines,
My soul would find, in flowers of God's ordaining,
Priests, sermons, shrines !

Bernard Barton.

1784-1849.

THERE BE THOSE.

There be those who sow beside
The waters that in silence glide,
Trusting no echo will declare

Whose footsteps ever wandered there.

The noiseless footsteps pass away,
The stream flows on as yesterday ;
Nor can it for a time be seen
A benefactor there had been.

Yet think not that the seed is dead
Which in the lonely place is spread;
It lives, it lives-the spring is nigh,
And soon its life shall testify.

That silent stream, that desert ground,
No more unlovely shall be found ;
But scattered flowers of simplest grace

Shall spread their beauty round the place.

And soon or late a time will come
When witnesses, that now are dumb,
With grateful eloquence shall tell

From whom the seed, there scattered, fell.

James Henry Leigh bunt.

(LEIGH HUNT.)

1784-1859.

AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE.

How sweet it were, if without feeble fright,
Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight,
An angel came to us, and we could bear
To see him issue from the silent air

At evening in our room, and bend on ours

His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers News of dear friends, and children who have

never

Been dead indeed,- -as we shall know forever.
Alas! we think not what we daily see
About our hearths, angels, that are to be,
Or may be if they will, and we prepare
Their souls and ours to meet in happy air,-
A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings
In unison with ours, breeding its future wings.

ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel, writing in a book of gold;
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,

"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head,

And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, "The names of those who love the
Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still, and said: "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one who loves his fellow-men.”
The angel wrote and vanished. The next night
It came again, with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had
blessed,

And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

benry kirke White.
1785-1806.

THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.

When marshall'd on the nightly plain,
The glittering host bestud the sky;
One star alone, of all the train,

Can fix the sinner's wandering eye.

Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks,
From every host, from every gem ;
But one alone the Saviour speaks,
It is the Star of Bethlehem.

Once on the raging seas I rode,

The storm was loud-the night was dark, The ocean yawn'd-and rudely blow'd

The wind that toss'd my foundering bark.

Deep horror then my vitals froze,
Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem;

When suddenly a star arose,

It was the Star of Bethlehem.

It was my guide, my light, my all,
It bade my dark forebodings cease;
And through the storm and dangers' thrall
It led me to the port of peace.

Now safely moor'd-my perils o'er,
I'll sing, first in night's diadem,

For ever and for evermore,

The Star-the Star of Bethlehem!

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire!
Whose modest form, so delicately fine,
Was nursed in whirling storms,

And cradled in the winds.

Thee, when young spring first questioned win

ter's sway,

And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,

Thee on this bank he threw

To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale,
Unnoticed and alone,

Thy tender elegance.