Among the loose and arid sands
The humble Arenaria creeps;
Slowly the purple star expands,
But soon within its calyx sleeps.

And those small bells so lightly ray'd
With young Aurora's rosy hue,
Are to the noontide sun display'd,

But shut their plaits against the dew.

On upland slopes the shepherds mark
The hour when, as the dial true,
Cichorium to the towering lark

Lifts her soft eyes serenely blue.

And thou, "Wee crimson-tipp'd flower,"
Gatherest thy fringed mantle round
Thy bosom at the closing hour,

When night-drops bathe the turfy ground.

Unlike Silenè, who declines

The garish noontide's blazing light; But when the evening crescent shines. Gives all her sweetness to the night.

Thus in each flower and simple bell,
That in our path betrodden lie,
Are sweet remembrancers who tell
How fast the winged moments fly.

MRS CHARLOTTE SMITH, 1749-1806.

MERCIFUL PROVIDENCE.

How are Thy servants blest, O Lord!
How sure is their defence!
Eternal wisdom is their guide,
Their help Omnipotence.

In foreign realms, and lands remote,
Supported by Thy care,

Through burning climes I pass'd unhurt,
And breathed in tainted air.

Thy mercy sweeten'd every soil,
Made every region please;

The hoary Alpine hills it warm'd,
And smooth'd the Tyrrhene seas.

Think, O my soul! devoutly think,
How, with affrighted eyes,
Thou saw'st the wide-extended deep
In all its horrors rise.

Confusion dwelt on every face,

And fear in every heart,

When waves on waves, and gulfs on gulfs, O'ercame the pilot's art.

K

Yet then from all my griefs, O Lord!
Thy mercy set me free;

Whilst in the confidence of prayer
My soul took hold on Thee.

For though in dreadful whirls we hung
High on the broken wave,

I knew Thou wert not slow to hear,
Nor impotent to save.

The storm was laid, the winds retired,
Obedient to Thy will;

The sea that roar'd at Thy command,
At Thy command was still.

In 'midst of dangers, fears, and death,
Thy goodness I'll adore ;

I'll praise Thee for Thy mercies past,
And humbly hope for more.

My life, if thou preserv'st my life,
Thy sacrifice shall be ;

And death, if death must be my doom,

Shall join my soul to Thee.

JOSEPH ADDISON, 1672-1719.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

SWEET bird! that sing'st away the early hours
Of winters past, or coming, void of care.
Well pleased with delights that present are,

Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers:
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers,
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare,
A stain to human sense in sin that low'rs.
What soul can be so sick which by thy songs
(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven.
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs,
And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven?
Sweet artless songster! Thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres-yes, and to angels' lays.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND, 1585-1649.

"CONSIDER THE LILIES HOW THEY GROW."

"Look to the lilies how they grow!"

'Twas thus the Saviour said, that we, Even in the simplest flowers that blow, God's ever-watchful care might see.

Yes! nought escapes the guardian eye
Of Him who marks the sparrow's fall,
Of Him who lists the raven's cry—
However vast, however small.

Then mourn we not for those we love,
As if all hope were reft away,
Nor let our sorrowing hearts refuse
Submission to His will to pay.

Shall He, who paints the lily's leaf,
Who gives the rose its scented breath,
Love all His works except the chief,
And leave his image, Man, to death?

No! other hearts and hopes be ours,
And to our souls let faith be given
To think our lost friends only flowers
Transplanted from this world to heaven,

D. M. MOIR, 1798-1851.

SABBATH-MORN.

WITH silent awe I hail the sacred morn

That slowly wakes, while all the fields are still :

A soothing calm on every breeze is borne,

A graver murmur gurgles from the rill,