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Field Flowers.

LOWERS of the field, how meet ye seem
Man's frailty to pourtray,

Blooming so fair in morning's beam,

Passing at eve away :

Teach this, and oh, though brief your reign, Sweet flowers, ye shall not live in vain.

Go, form a monitory wreath

For youth's unthinking brow; Go, and to busy manhood breathe

What most he fears to know;

Go, strew the path where age doth tread,
And tell him of the silent dead.

But whilst to thoughtless ones and gay
Ye breathe these truths severe,
To those who droop in pale decay
Have ye no word of cheer?
Oh, yes! ye weave a double spell,
And death and life betoken well.

Go, then, when wrapt in fear and gloom,
Fond hearts and true are sighing,

And deck with emblematic bloom
The pillow of the dying;

And softly speak, nor speak in vain,

Of your long sleep and broken chain.

And say that He who from the dust
Recalls the slumbering flower,

Will surely visit those who trust

His mercy and his power,—

Will mark where sleeps their peaceful clay,
And roll ere long the stone away.

On a Ruin.

"The weed is green when gray the wall,
And blossoms rise where turrets fall."

THAT various turns of chance and fate

W

This mouldering pile hath known; What rude magnificence and state

Within its halls were shown,

When "crowds of knights" and ladies gay

In "weeds of peace" kept holiday!

These walls, where now with softening grace

The ivy-wreath is flung,

With trophies once of war and chase

Were thick and proudly hung;

But helmet, spear, and sword are gone,
T'augment the dust we tread upon.

Full oft this cell in weary thrall

Hath lonely captive held,

And these proud towers the whizzing ball
Like granite rock repell'd;

But, ah, they fall and crumble now
Beneath a stronger,-mightier foe.

Time, time his withering hand hath laid
On battlement and tower,

And where rich banners were display'd
Now only waves a flower:

List, and 'twill fitting comment read
On revel gay and martial deed.

Mute is the warden's challenge, mute

The warrior's hasty tread,

And tuneless is the lady's lute,

For she is with the dead;

And but a flower now mourns the doom Of prostrate strength and faded bloom.

Read, stranger, in this ruin's fate
An emblem true of life:
Conflicting passions, love and hate,
Joy, sorrow, fear, and strife,
Combine, alas, in one dark plan,

To storm the "citadel of man!"

And should they fail, a foe is near
Who ne'er defeat hath known:
Time ever follows in the rear,—
He wills, the work is done;

For where's the beauty, strength, or pride,
Have e'er his withering touch defied?

Wear'st thou to-day the wreath of fame?
Oh heed it, heed it not;

A few brief years thy place and name
May be alike forgot,

And but a lowly flow'ret wave

Upon thy unremember'd grave.

Here ends the semblance! Never more

This ruin'd pile shall rise;

But man, a spirit blest, shall soar

When what is mortal dies,

If, while earth's changing paths he trod,
His heart and hopes were fix'd on God.

M. HEY.

The Lost Day.

OST! lost! lost!

A gem of countless price,
Cut from the living rock

And graved in Paradise:

Set round with three times eight
Large diamonds, clear and bright;
And each with sixty smaller ones,
All changeful as the light.

Lost where the thoughtless throng
In fashion's mazes wind,
Where thrilleth folly's song,

Leaving a sting behind;

Yet to my hand 'twas given,
A golden harp to buy,
Such as the white-robed choir attune
To deathless minstrelsy.

For till these heartstrings sever I know that heaven-entrusted gift Is reft away for ever.

But when the sea and land

Like burning scroll have fled,

I'll see it in His hand

Who judgeth quick and dead;