Your voiceless lips, O Flowers! are living preachers,
Each cup a pulpit and each leaf a book,
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers
From loneliest nook.

Floral Apostles! that in dewy splendour
"Weep without woe and blush without a crime : "
O may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender
Your lore sublime!

"Thou wast not, Solomon! in all thy glory
Array'd," the lilies cry, "in robes like ours:
How vain your grandeur! ah, how transitory
Are human flowers!"

In the sweet-scented pictures, Heavenly Artist! With which thou paintest Nature's wide-spread hall, What a delightful lesson thou impartest

Of love to all!

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 instructors hoary
For such a world of thought could furnish scope?
Each fading calyx a memento mori,

Yet fount of hope!

Posthumous Glories! angel-like collection,
Upraised from seed or bulb interr'd in earth :
Ye are to me a type of resurrection

And second birth.

Were I in church-less solitudes remaining,
Far from all voice of teachers or divines,

My soul would find in flowers, of God's ordaining,
Priests, sermons, shrines.

EBENEZER ELLIOTT.

1781-1849.

FLOWERS FOR THE HEART.

Flowers! winter flowers! The child is dead,
The mother can not speak.

O, softly couch his little head!
Or Mary's heart will break.
Amid those curls of flaxen hair

This pale pink ribbon twine;
And on the little bosom there

Place this wan lock of mine!
How like a form in cold white stone
The coffin'd infant lies!

Look, Mother! on thy little one:
And tears will fill thine eyes.

She can not weep; more faint she grows,
More deadly pale and still :—
Flowers! O, a flower! a winter rose,

That tiny hand to fill.

Go, search the fields! the lichen wet
Bends o'er the unfailing well;
Beneath the furrow lingers yet

The scarlet pimpernel.

Peeps not a snowdrop in the bower
Where never froze the spring?
A daisy? Ah, bring childhood's flower!
The half-blown daisy bring!
Yes! lay the daisy's little head

Beside the little cheek;

O haste!

The last of five is dead:

The childless can not speak.

THE BRAMBLE-FLOWER.

Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows,
Wild bramble of the brake !

So put thou forth thy small white rose !
I love it for his sake.

Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow
O'er all the fragrant bowers,

Thou need'st not be ashamed to show
Thy satin-threaded flowers:

For dull the eye, the heart is dull,
That can not feel how fair,
Amid all beauty beautiful,

Thy tender blossoms are;

How delicate thy gauzy frill,

How rich thy branchy stem,

How soft thy voice when woods are still
And thou sing'st hymns to them,
While silent showers are falling slow
And, 'mid the general hush,

A sweet air lifts the little bough,
Lone whispering through the bush!
The primrose to the grave is gone;
The hawthorn flower is dead;
The violet by the moss'd grey stone
Hath laid her weary head:

But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring,
In all their beauteous power,

The fresh green days of life's fair Spring

And boyhood's blossomy hour.

Scorn'd bramble of the brake! once more
Thou bidd'st me be a boy,

To gad with thee, the woodlands o'er,
In freedom and in joy.

ELEGY ON WILLIAM COBBETT. O bear him where the rain can fall,

And where the winds can blow;
And let the sun weep o'er his pall
As to the grave ye go!

And in some little lone churchyard,
Beside the growing corn,

Lay gentle Nature's stern prose bard,
Her mightiest peasant-born!

Yes! let the wild-flower wed his grave,

That bees may murmur near,

When o'er his last home bend the brave,

For Britons honour Cobbett's name,
Though rashly oft he spoke ;

And none can scorn, and few will blame,
The low-laid heart of oak.

See, o'er his prostrate branches, see!

E'en factious hate consents

To reverence, in the fallen tree,

His British lineaments.

Though gnarl'd the storm-tost boughs that braved The thunder's gather'd scowl,

Not always through his darkness raved

The storm-winds of the soul.

O, no! in hours of golden calm
Morn met his forehead bold;
And breezy evening sang her psalm
Beneath his dew-dropp'd gold.

The wren its crest of fibred fire

With his rich bronze compared;

While many a youngling's songful sire
His acorn'd twiglets shared.

The lark, above, sweet tribute paid,

Where clouds with light were riven; And true love sought his blue-bell'd shade, "To bless the hour of heaven."

E'en when his stormy voice was loud,
And guilt quaked at the sound,
Beneath the frown that shook the proud
The poor a shelter found.

Dead Oak! thou livest. Thy smitten hands,
The thunder of thy brow,

Speak, with strange tongues, in many lands,
And tyrants hear thee, now!

Beneath the shadow of thy name,
Inspired by thy renown,
Shall future patriots rise to fame,
And many a sun go down.

HANNAH RATCLIFFE.

If e'er she knew an evil thought,
She spoke no evil word:

Peace to the gentle ! She hath sought
The bosom of her Lord.

She lived to love, and loved to bless

Whatever He hath made;

But early on her gentleness

His chastening hand he laid.

Like a maim'd linnet nursed with care,

She graced a home of bliss;

And dwelt in thankful quiet there,

To show what goodness is.