LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. BY H. W. LONGFELLOW. SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers so blue and golden, Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. Stars they are, wherein we read our history, Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, Bright and glorious is that revelation, In these stars of earth,-these golden flowers. And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, Of the self-same, universal Being, Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, These in flowers and men are more than seeming⚫ Workings are they of the self-same powers, Which the poet, in no idle dreaming, Seeth in himself and in the flowers. Every where about us are they glowing, Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, And in Summer's green-emblazoned field, But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing, In the centre of his brazen shield; Not alone in meadows and green alleys, Not alone in her vast dome of glory, On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone; In the cottage of the rudest peasant, In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers; In all places, then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, How akin they are to human things. And with child-like, credulous affection, THE STAR AND THE WATER-LILY. BY O. W. HOLMES. THE Sun stepp'd down from his golden throne, And the Lily had folded her satin leaves, What is the Lily dreaming of? Why crisp the waters blue? See, see, she is lifting her varnish'd lid! The Rose is cooling his burning cheek The Lily hath sisters fresh and fair, That would lie by the Rose's side; Remember, remember, thou silly one, Or flourish a blooming bride? But what if the stormy cloud should come, Would he turn his eye from the distant sky, O, no! fair Lily, he will not send One ray from his far-off throne; The winds shall blow and the waves shall flow, And thou wilt be left alone. There is not a leaf on the mountain-top, Nor a golden sand on the sparkling shore, That he has not cheer'd with his fickle smile, Alas, for the Lily! she would not heed, And bared her breast to the trembling ray The cloud came over the darken'd sky, She look'd in vain through the beating rain, |