The Lily of the Valley.

More frequent than the host of night,
Those earth-born stars, as sages write,

Their brilliant discs unfold;
Fit symbol of imperial state,
Their sceptre-seeming forms elate,
And crowns of burnished gold.

But not the less, sweet spring-tide's flower,
Dost thou display thy Maker's power,
His skill and handiwork;

Our western valley's humbler child,
Where, in green nook of woodland wild,
Thy modest blossoms lurk.

What though no care nor heart be thine,
The loom to ply, the thread to twine,
Yet, born to bloom and fade,
Thee too a lovelier robe arrays,
Than e'en in Israel's brightest days,

Her wealthiest kings arrayed.

Of thy twin-leaves the embowered screen,
Which wraps thee in thy shroud of green;
Thy Eden-breathing smell;
Thy arch'd and purple-vested stem,
Whence pendant many a pearly gem,
Displays a milk-white bell;

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,
Charged thy fair blossoms to produce,
And berries scarlet red.

The triple cell, the twofold seed,
A ceaseless treasure-house decreed,
Whence aye thy race may grow,

As from creation they have grown,
While spring shall weave her flowery crown,
Or vernal breezes blow;

Who forms thee thus, with unseen hand?
Who, at creation gave command,

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 post to each assigned;
Still provident with sleepless care,
To keep; to make thee sweet and fair
For man's enjoyment-kind!

The Lily of the Valley.

"There is no God," the senseless say:-
"Oh God! why cast'st thou us away!"
Of feeble faith and frail,

The mourner breathes his anxious thought;
By thee a better lesson taught,

Sweet lily of the vale!

Yes, He who made and fosters thee,
In reason's eye perforce must be
Of majesty divine.

Nor deems she that His guardian care
Will He in man's support forbear,

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,
Thou seem'st beneath thy huge high leaf of green,
An Eremite beneath his mountain's brow.
White bud! thou'rt emblem of a lovelier thing,-
The broken spirit that its anguish bears
To silent shades, and there sits offering
To Heaven the holy fragrance of its tears.

CROLY.

93

BLUEBELLS.

NOR grass nor herb,

Nought but their own fair selves were smiling there,
As if they all had sprouted suddenly,

Laden with full-blown blossoms, and with buds
Half-blown between, with stalks most delicate,
From the thin soil o'ergrown with yellow moss
That shared their beauty; or had fallen down,
Immortal flowers! from the pure coronal
Of seraph swimming through our lower skies
One hour away from heaven!

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