The Passion Flower.

In valley lone, on mountain height,

All in one common tale unite;

All speak His love who died, that we

Might live through all eternity.

35

ANNA EASTBURN.

A BOUQUET.

THE rich magnolia,

High priestess of the flowers whose censer fills

The air.

MRS. SIGOURNEY.

THE good old Passion Flower!

It bringeth to thy mind

The young days of the Christian Church,

Dim ages left behind.

MARY HOWITT.

AMBITIOUS LOVE.

AVE you been out some starry night,
And found it joy to bend
Your eyes to one particular light,

Till it became a friend.

And, then, so loved that glistening spot,

That, whether it were far
Or more or less, it matter'd not-

It still was your own star.

Thus and thus only can ye know
How I, e'en scorned I,

Can live in love, though set so low,
And my ladie-love so high;
Thus learn that on this varied ball,
Whate'er can breathe or move-

The meanest, lornest thing of all
Still owns its right to love.

Oh, deep delight! the frail guitar
Trembles beneath her hand,

She sings a song, she brought from far,
I cannot understand;

Ambitious Love.

Her voice is always as from heaven,
But yet I seem to hear

Its music best, when thus 'tis given
All music to my ear.

She has turned her tender eyes around
And seen me crouching there,
And smiles, just as that last full sound
Is fainting on the air.

And now I can go forth so proud

And raise my head so tall,

My heart within me beats so loud

And musical withal.

And there is summer all the while,
Mid-winter though it be;

How, should the universe not smile
When she has smiled on me!

For though that smile can nothing more

Than merest pity prove;

Yet pity, it was sung of yore,

Is not so far from love.

Thus, without share in coin or land

But well content to hold

The wealth of nature in my hand,

One flail of virgin gold,

37

My love above me like a sun,

My own bright thoughts-my wings,
Through life I trust to flutter on
As gay as aught that sings.

One hour I own I dread-to die
Alone and unbefriended,
No soothing voice, no tearful eye,
But that must soon be ended;
And then I shall receive my part

Of everlasting treasure,

In that just world where each man's heart
Will be his only measure.

R. M. MILNES.

THE GARDEN.

How beautiful! a garden fair as heaven,
Flowers of all hues and smiling in the sun,
Where all was waste and wilderness before.
Well do ye imitate, ye gods of earth,

The great Creator. Rock, and lake, and glade,
Birds, fishes, and untamed beasts are here.
Your work were all an Eden but for this-
Here is no man unconscious of a pang,
No perfect Sabbath of unbroken rest.

GOETHE.

THERE IS A SPELL IN EVERY FLOWER.

HERE is a spell in every flower,
A sweetness in each spray,
And every simple bird has power
To please me with its lay;

And there is music in each breeze
That sports along the glade :
The crystal dewdrops on the trees
Are gems by fancy made.

There's gladness too in everything,
And beauty over all:

For everywhere comes on with spring
A charm which cannot pall;

And I my heart is full of joy,

And gratitude is there,

That He, who might my life destroy,

Has yet vouchsafed to spare.