Pansies for ladies all! I wis

That none who wear such brooches, miss
A jewel in the mirror:

And tulips, children love to stretch
Their fingers down, to feel in each
Its beauty's secret nearer.

Love's language may be talked with these! To work out choicest sentences,

No blossoms can be meeter,—

And, such being used in Eastern bowers, Young maids may wonder if the flowers Or meanings be the sweeter.

And such being strewn before a bride,
Her little foot may turn aside,

Their long bloom decreeing!

Unless some voice's whispered sound
Should make her gaze upon the ground
Too earnestly--for seeing.

And such being scattered on a grave,
Whoever mourneth there may have
A type that seemeth worthy
Of a fair body hid below,

Which bloomed on earth a time ago,
Then perished as the earthy.

And such being wreathed for worldly feast, Across the brimming cup some guest

Their rainbow colors viewing,

May feel them,--with a silent start,—
The covenant, his childish heart
With nature, made,-renewing.

No flowers our gardened England hath,
To match with these, in bloom and breath,
Which from the world are hiding
In sunny Devon moist with rills,-
A nunnery of cloistered hills,-
The elements presiding.

By Loddon's stream the flowers are fair
That meet one gifted lady's care

With prodigal rewarding;
But Beauty is too used to run

To Mitford's bower-to want the sun
To light her through the garden!

And here, all summers are comprised-
The nightly frosts shrink exorcised
Before the priestly moonshine!
And every wind with stoled feet,
In wandering down the alleys sweet,
Steps lightly on the sunshine;

And (having promised "Harpocrate
Among the nodding roses, that

No harm shall touch his daughters)

Gives quite away the noisy sound,
He dares not use upon such ground,
To ever-trickling waters.

Yet, sun and wind! what can ye do,
But make the leaves more brightly show
In posies newly gathered ?-

I look away from all your best;
To one poor flower unlike the rest,—

A little flower half-withered.

I do not think it ever was

Look

A pretty flower,—to make the grass
greener where it reddened :
And now it seems ashamed to be
Alone in all this company,

Of aspect shrunk and saddened!

A chamber-window was the spot
It grew in, from a garden-pot,
Among the city shadows:
If any, tending it, might seem
To smile, 't was only in a dream
Of nature in the meadows.

How coldly, on its head, did fall
The sunshine, from the city wall,
In pale refraction driven !
How sadly plashed upon its leaves
The raindrops, losing in the eaves

The first sweet news of Heaven!

And those who planted, gathered it
In gamesome or in loving fit,

And sent it as a token

Of what their city pleasures be,

For one, in Devon by the sea,
And garden-blooms, to look on.

But SHE, for whom the jest was meant,
With a grave passion innocent

Receiving what was given,—

Oh! if her face she turned then, .
Let none say 't was to gaze again
Upon the flowers of Devon

Because, whatever virtue dwells
In genial skies-warm oracles

For gardens brightly springing,

The flower which grew beneath your eyes,
Ah sweetest friends, to mine supplies
A beauty worthier singing!

THE CRY OF THE HUMAN.

"THERE is no God," the foolish saith,

But none,

"There is no sorrow;'

And nature oft, the cry of faith,

In bitter need will borrow:

Eyes which the preacher could not school,
By wayside graves are raised;

And lips say, "God be pitiful,"

Who ne'er said, "God be praised."

Be pitiful, O God!

The tempest stretches from the steep
The shadow of its coming-

The beasts grow tame, and near us creep,
As help were in the human—

Yet, while the cloud-wheels roll and grind

We spirits tremble under !—

The hills have echoes; but we find

No answer for the thunder.

Be pitiful, O God!

The battle hurtles on the plains-
Earth feels new scythes upon her :
We reap our brothers for the wains,
And call the harvest. . honor,-