The Three Sweet Seasons-a dirge for the departed ones, and a

THE ROMANCE OF NATURE.

FLOWERS.

Ye are the stars of earth-ye glorious things!
And as your skiey kindred gem the night,

So ye, with hues like rainbows, yet more bright,
Gladden the day-and, as each sunburst flings
More wide your nectared leaves, where lab'ring sings
The honey-seeking bee, or in gay flight
Hovers the dainty butterfly, we might

Deem ye, too, insects-birds, without their wings.
Ye are the stars of earth-and dear to me
Is each small twinkling bud that wanders free
'Mid glade or woodland, or by murm'ring stream,
For ye to me are more than sweet or fair-
I love ye for the mem'ries that ye bear
Of by-gone hours, whose bliss was but a dream.

From "Poems, by L. A. TwAMLEY."

AND are they not the stars of earth?

Doth not

Our memory of their bright and varied forms
Wind back to childhood's days of guileless sport,
When these familiar friends of later years

"A beauty and a mystery" remained?

And were they not to infant eyes more dear
E'en than their starry kindred? For one glance
Of wondering love we lifted to the vault
Of the o'er orbèd sky, have we not bent
Full many a gaze of pleased affection down
To the green field, starred over with its hosts
Of daisies, countless as the blades of grass,

B

'Midst which they seemed to look and laugh at us? Oh! I can now recall th' unthrift delight

That filled my basket and my tiny hands

With buttercups, that shone in burnished gold,
And daisies, with their rose-tipped silvery rays
Spreading around the yellow boss within-

And some, most prized, that had not yet displayed
Their fairy circle, but emerging new

From their green hermitage, seemed as they blushed
Beneath the ardent sun's admiring gaze :-

And then, the treasure housed, with what proud care The simple buds were ranged in vase or cup,Nothing to us too costly for their use,

And set in sunny window with strict care

That none molest our wealth.

Aye, we were rich

In those young, innocent days-rich in our love

Of the not unveiled world-rich in our faith

That all was as it seemed-that life was truth.
Rich in its ignorance is infancy,

And every added year but makes more poor,

By added knowledge, childhood's guileless wealth-
The wealth of an unblighted, unchilled soul.

FLOWERS never lose their charm. When older grown,

See a child working in his little plot

Of garden ground; and, if you chance to stand,

As I have often done, high in the love
Of the young tyro of the spade and rake

Look at the eager joyousness and pride
With which the choicest of the little store

Are plucked and offered you. The reddest rose-
The tallest pink-and, treasure beyond all,

The matron daisy and her circling brood,
"The hen and chickens." How I love the glance
Of exultation that comes with the gift!

And wish, aye, from my very soul, that each
Young school-immured being could so learn

From Nature's glorious book her marv'lous works—
Pedants might lose their slaves, but worlds win men.

And are not FLOWERS the earliest gift of love?

Do they not, mutely eloquent, oft speak

For absent or for trembling hearts, and bear

Kisses and sighs on their perfumèd lips

And worlds of thought and fancy in their leaves Touched by the rainbow's dyes? Have ye ne'er prized

Some token-flower-an early rose-a bunch

Of young Spring's first and sweetest violets, culled

And given into yours by hands so dear,

That all Flowers seemed grown holier from that time?

Have ye ne'er hoarded such a simple gift

Aye, through long years-e'en when each shrunken leaf

Bore not a semblance to the thing it was,

And the soft fragrance that had once been there

Had changed from sweet to noisome-and, e'en then,

For very fondness could not fling away

Those dim and faded records of the past,

But laid the frail things in their wonted place,

To gaze and dream-and weep upon again?

What slowly-pacing band is g iding, 'neath

Yon aisle-like avenue of stately elms,

Tow'rds the grey village church? A fun'ral train;

And she they mourn far fairer was than all
Her maiden friends, who oft have gaily met
Her bounding form amid the rustic dance,
And now assemble round her early grave-
The very tree from whence the wreath was plucked
That crowned her Lady of the May, has given
A chaplet of its flowers, the wan white rose,
To lay upon her pall.'-

E'en from the earliest time, been banquet guests? Have they not wreathed alike the brow and bowl? Bright'ning and chastening, at once, the scenes

Of revelry to which they gave a grace,

A simple luxury, and a charm beyond

What any aid of human art could bring?.