THE FLOWER MESSAGE.

THEY said he was craz'd with grief,
And I think it might be so,
And in this pastime sought relief
Of his unspoken woe.

For in the cloven land

Leaves from the rose fresh shed He placed with deferential hand, Sweet letters to the dead.

For he had seen her laid

Low in earth's silent breast,

Beyond the reach of words—the maid

He lov'd, in dreamless rest.

And it may be the thought,

The faded blooms might bear

His love to her he lov'd, was fraught With spells that lull'd despair.

Thus every summer eve

His heart with hopes he fed

That his love-tokens would receive
An answer from the dead.

And when the flowers no more
Bloom'd to supply his need,
Still constant to the place he bore
Cells with their ripening seed.

Thus pass'd the days till rain

Fell, and the damp and cold Sealed up the pores on all the plain, Melting the soften'd mould.

The fields and trees were sere,
The leaves and flowers were fled,
A dull mist veil'd the dying year,
And hope itself seem'd dead.

But Nature's annual grief

Melts with the snows away, And with the Spring's soft breath relief Comes, and a dream of May.

Then warmth and life begin

To wake, to move, to thrill,

Unseen, Earth's torpid heart within,

Like a half-conscious will;

A will, that soon asserts

Itself, and gathering power
Works by sure process, and converts
The seed into the flower.

And thus it chanc'd one morn

That smelt and breathed of Spring,

He loiter'd by the spot forlorn,

Not hoping anything.

When, lo! his languid eye

Flash'd with a sudden flame,
His pulses stopp'd, and a great cry
From his heart quivering came.

For there was it a flower?

Or was it Heaven's own blue, Shed by the balmy vernal shower And sphered in tender dew?

Ah! far away his thought

From dews or flowers had fled,
At length had come, long vainly sought,
The message from the dead!

They marvell'd that he lay

So long upon the ground,

And knew not that his life that day
Had its completeness found.

They bore him gently home,

The flower clasp'd to his breast— Sweet message from the silent tomb— Herald of peace and rest.

W. PARKINSON.

COULD I RECALL THE YEARS THAT

NOW ARE FLOWN.

COULD I recall the years that now are flown
For evermore :

Revive my early visions-long o'erthrown-
And hope restore:

How blest it were to mould my life anew,
And all my broken vows of youth renew!

Oh, were I once again but free to choose
As in past days,

How oft the sun-lit path I would refuse
For sterner ways!

Content to turn aside from every road,
Save that which kept me in the smile of God.

But vain the dream: the strife is o'er with me,
Dark days remain;

I could not trust my heart if I were free
To choose again;

The dazzling morning might again deceive,
Life be mis-spent, and age be left to grieve.

I would not, if I could, recall the years
That now are fled;

Their cares and pleasures, labours, hopes, and fears
For me are dead;

I ask but mercy for the weary past,

And grace to guide me gently home at last.

REV. JOHN MACLEOD.

H H

THE WORTH OF HOURS.

BELIEVE not that your inner eye
Can ever in just measure try
The worth of hours as they go by.

For every man's weak self, alas!
Makes him to see them, while they pass,
As through a dim or tinted glass.

But if in earnest care you would
Mete out to each its part of good,
Trust rather to your after-mood.

Those surely are not fairly spent,
That leave your spirit bowed and bent
In sad unrest and ill-content:

And more-though free from seeming harm
You rest from toil of mind or arm,
Or slow retire from pleasure's charm,-

For then a painful sense comes on
Of something wholly lost and gone,
Vainly enjoyed, or vainly done;