The Lily of the Valley. More frequent than the host of night, Their brilliant discs unfold; But not the less, sweet spring-tide's flower, Our western valley's humbler child, What though no care nor heart be thine, Her wealthiest kings arrayed. Of thy twin-leaves the embowered screen, ΟΙ Instinct with life thy fibrous root, Which sends from earth the ascending shoot, As rising from the dead, And fills thy veins with verdant juice, The triple cell, the twofold seed, As from creation they have grown, Who forms thee thus, with unseen hand? And willed thee thus to be: And keeps thee still in being, through Age after age revolving? who But the great God is He? Omnipotent to work his will! Wise, who contrives each part to fill The Lily of the Valley. "There is no God," the senseless say:- The mourner breathes his anxious thought; Sweet lily of the vale! Yes, He who made and fosters thee, Nor deems she that His guardian care Who thus provides for thine. BISHOP MANT. THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. WHITE bud! that in meek beauty so dost lean, The cloistered cheek as pale as moonlight snow, CROLY. 93 BLUEBELLS. NOR grass nor herb, Nought but their own fair selves were smiling there, Laden with full-blown blossoms, and with buds A whispering wind Self-born amid the silence, like a thought, A cheerful thought, not unembued with love, Not unallied to tears, almost a sigh. Touched these sweet Harebells,—for I knew their names, Even through the uncertain glimmer of their blue And skiey beauty, and a shower of pearls, Shook from their petals, bathed the stalks as fine As gossamer, and slipt along the leaves, The tiny leaves almost invisible |