Its very cravings wean it hence, It anchors where its rest remaineth ; And who has pow'r to drive it thence? Its Helper is Omnipotence, The Rock of Ages its defence, And sinlessness the prize it gaineth. Sweet scented flower, didst thou attain thy birth? Full oft my gladden'd eye, In pleasant glade, or river's marge has traced (As if there planted by the hand of taste,) Sweet flowers of every dye. But never did I see, In mead or mountain, or domestic bower, 'Mong many a lovely and delicious flower, One half so fair as thee! Thy beauty makes rejoice My inmost heart-I know not how 'tis so,Quick coming fancies thou dost make me know, For fragrance is thy voice. And still it comes to me, In quiet night, and turmoil of the day, Together we'll commune, As lovers do, when, standing all apart, No one o'erhears the whispers of their heart, Thy thoughts I can divine, Although not uttered in vernacular words, Of earth's fresh shrubs and roots; Of Summer days, when men their thirsting slake In the cool fountain, or the cooler lake, While eating wood-grown fruits. Thy leaves my memory tell Of sights and scents and sounds, that come again, The meadows in their green, Smooth-running waters in the far-off ways, The deep-voiced forest where the hermit prays, In thy fair face are seen. Thy home is in the wild, 'Mong sylvan shades, near music haunted springs, Where peace dwells all apart from earthly things, Like some secluded child. The beauty of the sky, The music of the woods, the love that stirs I shall not soon forget What thou hast taught me in my solitude, Thou bring'st unto the soul A blessing and a peace, inspiring thought; THE WILD FLOWERS. BY F. J. SMITH. Sweet wilding tufts, that 'mid the waste, Though by no sheltering walls embraced, The primal flowers which grace your stems, Found thus, like unexpected gems, To lonely hearts like mine. 'Tis a quaint thought, and yet, perchance, |