Floral Poetry. 
T 45 
Whence came the spell, which ever seemed 
To hold each passer-by? 
Was it a look of heaven they read, 
On lip, and brow, and eye ? 
Oh, let me kneel beside this cross, 
Beneath the Hawthorn tree; 
And say, with heart of gratitude, 
“ My child, ’tis well with thee ! ” 
Agnes 7i. Howell. 
THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. 
mo the curious eye 
A A little monitor presents her page 
Of choice instruction, with her snowy bells, 
The Lily of the Yale. She nor affects 
The public walk, nor gaze of mid-day sun : 
She to no state or dignity aspires, 
But silent and alone puts on her suit, 
And sheds a lasting perfume, but for which 
We had not known there was a thing so sweet 
Hid in the gloomy shade. So, when the blast 
Her sister tribes confounds, and to the earth 
Stoops their high heads that vainly were exposed, 
She feels it not, but flourishes anew, 
Still sheltered and secure. And as the storm, 
That makes the high Elm couch, and rends the Oak, 
The humble Lily spares,—a thousand blows 
That shake the lofty monarch on his throne, 
We lesser folks feel not. Keen are the pains 
Advancement often brings. To be secure, 
Be humble; to be happy, be content. 
James Hurdis. 
