I 76 ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 



HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 



'\TEATH cloister'd bough each floral bell that swingeth 

 1\ And tolls its perfume on the passing air, 

 Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 

 A call to prayer. 



Not to those domes where crumbling arch and column 



Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, 

 But to that fane most catholic and solemn, 



Which God hath planned; 



To that cathedral boundless as our wonder, 



Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply : 



Its choir, the wind and waves ; its organ, thunder; 

 Its dome, the sky. 



There, as in solitude and shade, I wander 



Through the lone aisles, or stretched upon the sod, 



Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 

 The ways of God. 



Your voiceless lips, O flowers ! are living preachers ; 



Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book ; 

 Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers, 



In loneliest nook. 



HORACE SMITH. 



THE TREE. 



THE tree's early leaf-buds were bursting their brown. 

 " Shall I take them away? " said the frost sweeping down. 

 " No ; leave them alone 



Till the blossoms have grown," 

 Prayed the tree, while he trembled from rootlet to crown. 



The tree bore his blossoms, and all the birds sung. 

 ' Shall I take them away ? " said the wind as he swung. 

 '' No ; leave them alone 



Till the berries have grown," 

 Said the tree, while his leaflets quivering hung. 



The tree bore his fruit in the midsummer glow. 

 Said the child, " May I gather thy berries now ? " 

 " Yes; all thou canst see ; 



Take them ; all are for thee," 

 Said the tree, while he bent down his laden boughs low. 



BjORNSTJERNE BjORNSON. 



