i;6 
ARBOR DA V MANUAL. 
HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 
’ATEATH cloister’d bough 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. 
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. 
T HE 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 svfung. 
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. 
