A CHAPTER ON FLOWERS. 15 



scroll written over with blessings and promises by the finger 

 of God ! 



It was Wordsworth, was it not ? who thanked God for the 

 mountains, — feeling in his utmost heart how much the sublimity 

 of external life aided the soul in its lofty soarings to the infinite. 

 May we not also thank the Creator in the same spirit for the 

 lowly blossom which spangles the wayside, as if to show that 

 the Being whose omnipotent hand could fix the mountain on its 

 rocky base, had yet the omniscient goodness to foresee and 

 provide for the humblest wants of his creatures. As if to 

 make us feel that the Almighty Creator was also our " Father 

 in Heaven." 



Beautiful indeed are the wild flowers of our own dear land. 

 They grow not in hedge-rows and beside the tiny cottage, but 

 they hide within the forest, they climb the lofty mountain, they 

 enamel our wide expanse of wilderness. Listen to the sweet 

 utterance of " Eva the sinless" : — 



" They tremble on the mountain height 



The fissured rock they press, 

 The desert wild with heat and sand, 



Shares too their blessedness ; 

 And wheresoe'er the weary heart 



Turns in its dim despair, 

 The meek-eyed blossom upward looks 



Inviting it to prayer. 



