THE ROMANCE OF NATURE. FLOWERS. Ye are the stars of earth-ye glorious things! So ye, with hues like rainbows, yet more bright, Deem ye, too, insects-birds, without their wings. From "Poems, by L. A. TwAMLEY." AND are they not the stars of earth? Doth not Our memory of their bright and varied forms "A beauty and a mystery" remained? And were they not to infant eyes more dear 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 some, most prized, that had not yet displayed From their green hermitage, seemed as they blushed 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. And every added year but makes more poor, By added knowledge, childhood's guileless wealth- 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 Look at the eager joyousness and pride Are plucked and offered you. The reddest rose- The matron daisy and her circling brood, And wish, aye, from my very soul, that each From Nature's glorious book her marv'lous works— 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 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?. |