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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 instructions 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,

A second birth.

Were I, O God, in churchless lands remaining,
Far from all voice of teachers or divines,
My soul would find in flowers of Thy ordaining,
Priests, sermons, shrines.

HORACE SMITH, 1779-1849.

THE DIVINE PROVIDENCE.

As some fond mother views her infant race,

With tender love o'erflowing while she sees; She kisses one, one clasps in her embrace,

Her feet supporting one, and one her knees;

Then, as the winning gesture, speaking face,

Or plaintive cry explain their different pleas, A look, a word she deals with various grace,

And smiles or frowns, as Love alone decrees. O'er man, frail kind, so Providence Divine

Still watches; hears, sustains, and succours all, With equal eye upholding each that livęs.

If Heaven denies, oh! let not man repine! Heaven but denies to quicken duty's call, Or feigning to deny, more largely gives. POETICAL REGISTER.

-Italian of Filicaja.

THE TEMPLE OF NATURE.

TALK not of temples-there is one

Built without hands, to mankind given;
Its lamps are the meridian sun,

And all the stars of heaven;

Its walls are the cerulean sky,

Its floor the earth so green and fair ;
The dome is vast immensity-
All nature worships there!

The Alps array'd in stainless snow,
The Andean ranges yet untrod,

At sunrise and at sunset glow

Like altar-fires to God.

A thousand fierce volcanoes blaze,

As if with hallow'd victims rare ; And thunder lifts its voice in praiseAll nature worships there!

The ocean heaves resistlessly,

And pours his glittering treasure forth; His waves-the priesthood of the sea— Kneel on the shell-gemm'd earth, And there emit a hollow sound,

As if they murmur'd praise and prayer; On every side 'tis holy groundAll nature worships there!

The grateful earth her odours yield
In homage, Mighty One! to Thee;
From herbs and flowers in every field,
From fruit on every tree,

The balmy dew at morn and even
Seems like the penitential tear,
Shed only in the sight of Heaven-
All nature worships there!

The cedar and the mountain pine,
The willow on the fountain's brim,

The tulip and the eglantine,

In reverence bend to Him;

The song-birds pour their sweetest lays,
From tower, and tree, and middle air;

The rushing river murmurs praise-
All nature worships there!

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Then talk not of a fane, save one

Built without hands, to mankind given; Its lamps are the meridian sun,

And all the stars of heaven.

Its walls are the cerulean sky,

Its floor the earth so green and fair,

The dome is vast immensity

All nature worships there!

DAVID VEDDER, 1790-1854.

TO THE CUCKOO

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!
Thou messenger of Spring!
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee
I hail the time of flowers,

And hear the sound of music sweet

From birds among the bowers.

The schoolboy, wandering through the wood,

To pull the primrose gay,

Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear,

And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,

Thou fliest thy vocal vale,

An annual guest in other lands,
Another Spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear;

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No Winter in thy year!

Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visits o'er the globe,
Companions of the Spring.

JOHN LOGAN, 1748-1788.

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