"What ! dull, when you do not know what gives its love- 

 liness of form to the lily, its depth of colour to the violet, 

 its fragrance to the rose ; . . . when earth, air, and water 

 are all alike mysteries to you, . . . while all the time 

 Nature is inviting you to talk earnestly with her ! ... Go 

 away, man; learn something, do something, understand 

 something, and let me hear no more of your dullness. ' ' 



SIR ARTHUR HELPS. 



HYMN TO THE FLOWERS 



" 'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth 



And tolls its perfume on the passing air, 

 Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 

 A call to prayer. 



Your voiceless lips, Flowers, are living preachers, 



Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book, 

 Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 

 From loneliest nook. 



Were I, God, in churchless lands remaining, 



Far from all voice of teachers or divines ; 

 My soul would find, in Flowers of Thy ordaining, 

 Priests, sermons, shrines ! ' ' 



HORACE SMITH. 



