HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 
Day-stais ! that ope your frownless eyes to twinkle 
From rainbow galaxies of earth’s creation, 
And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle 
As a libation. 
Ye matin worshippers ! who, bending lowly 
Before the uprisen sun, God’s lidless eye, 
Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy 
Incense on high. 
Ye bright mosaics ! that with storied beauty, , 
The floor of Nature’s temple tessellate, 
What numerous emblems of instructive duty 
Your forms create! 
’Neatli 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. 
Not to the domes, where crumbling arch anti 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 winds and waves, its organ thunder, 
Its dome the sky. 
There, as in solitude and shade I wander 
Through the green 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, each leaf a book, 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
From loneliest nook. 
Floral apostles ! that in dewey splendor 
“ Weep without woe, and blush without a crime,” 
O, may I deeply learn, and ne’er surrender 
Your lore sublime ! 
‘ ‘ Thou wert not, Solomon, in all thy glory, 
Arrayed,” the Lilies cry, “in robes like ours! 
How vain your grandeur ! ah, how transitory 
Are human flowers!” 
In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly artist! 
With which thou paintest Nature’s widespread hall. 
What a delightful lesson thou impartest 
Of love to all! 
Not useless are ye, flowers ! though made for pleasure: 
Blooming o’er field and wave, by day and night, 
From every source your sanction bids me treasure 
Harmless delight. 
Ephemeral sages ! What instructors hoary 
For such a world of thought could furnish scope ? 
Each fading calyx a memento mori, 
Yet fount of hope. 
Posthumous glories ! angel-like collection ! 
Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth, 
Ye are to me a type of resurrection 
And second birth. 
Were I in churchless solitudes remaining, 
Far from all voice of teachers and divines, 
My soul would find, in flowers of God’s ordaining, 
Priests, sermons, shrines. 
—Horace Smith. 
ROMAN MATRON OF THE ANCIENT TIME. 
The last sunbeams were lingering on the Appenines, 
but twilight was fast creeping over the river Liris and 
the little Roman town of Arpinum on its banks, when 
a bridal procession passed through the streets from 
the house of the bride’s father to that of the bride¬ 
groom. 
There were the flashing of torches, the songs of the 
youths, the escort of veiled virgins, and all the pictur¬ 
esque pomp which has become to us so allegorical, but 
which bore mighty meaning to the ancient Roman.— 
The air was filled with the music of the flute, lyre, harp, 
cymbal, drum and sistrum, and of all voices chanting 
the Talasius or marriage-hymn. The narrow street was 
crowded with spectators, among whom slaves distributed 
bride cakes, and many of whom pronounced aloud their 
good wishes for the bride as she stepped by, her face 
hidden in the folds of her flame-colored veil, and the 
little crimson-slippered feet peeping out from beneath 
the purple border of her white robe. 
Preceding the bride walked two little boys waving 
torches of white thorn-wood, and immediately after her 
followed the maidens who carried the distaff and spindle. 
These implements signified that she meant to preside 
over her own household, and labor with her hands. 
The bridegroom met the procession at the door of his 
house, and greeted the bride with the ancient challenge 
customary in Rome since the good days of Tarquinius 
Priscus, and his wife Caia Caecillia, “Who art thou ?” to 
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