THE DAY OF FLOWERS.

A MOTHER'S WALK WITH HER CHILD.

One spirit-His

Who wore the platted thorn with bleeding brows,

Rules universal nature.-Not a flower

But shews some touch, in freckle, freak, or stain,

Of his unrivalled pencil. He inspires

Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues,

And bathes their eyes with nectar.

Happy who walks with him!

COWPER.

COME to the woods, my boy!

Come to the streams and bowery dingles forth,

My happy child! The spirit of bright hours

Woos us in every wind; fresh wild-leaf scents

From thickets where the lonely stock-dove broods,

Enter our lattice; fitful songs of joy

Float in with each soft current of the air;

And we will hear their summons; we will give

One day to flowers, and sunshine, and glad thoughts, And thou shalt revel midst free nature's wealth,

And, for thy mother, twine wild wreaths; while she From thy delight, wins to her own fond heart

The vernal extasy of childhood back :—

Come to the woods, my boy!

What! wouldst thou lead already to the path

Along the copsewood brook? Come, then! in truth

Meet playmate for a child, a blessed child,

Is a glad singing stream, heard or unheard,

Singing its melody of happiness

Amidst the reeds, and bounding in free grace

To that sweet chime.-With what a sparkling life

It fills the shadowy dingle! now the wing

Of some low skimming swallow shakes bright spray
Forth to the sunshine from its dimpled wave;
Now, from some pool of crystal darkness deep,
The trout springs upward, with a showery gleam
And plashing sound of waters. What swift rings
Of mazy insects o'er the shallow tide

Seem, as they glance, to scatter sparks of light

From burnished films! And mark yon silvery line Of gossamer, so tremulously hung

Across the narrow current, from the tuft

Of hazels to the hoary poplar's bough!

See, in the air's transparence, how it waves,

Quivering and glistening with each faintest gale,

Yet breaking not-a bridge for fairy shapes,

How delicate, how wondrous!

Yes, my boy!

Well may we make the stream's bright winding vein

Our woodland guide, for He who made the stream

Made it a clue to haunts of loveliness,

For ever deepening. O, forget him not,

Dear child! that airy gladness which thou feel'st
Wafting thee after bird and butterfly,

As 'twere a breeze within thee, is not less
His gift, his blessing on thy spring-time hours,
Than this rich outward sunshine, mantling all
The leaves, and grass, and mossy tinted stones
With summer glory. Stay thy bounding step,
My merry wanderer! let us rest a while

By this clear pool, where, in the shadow flung
From alder boughs and osiers o'er its breast,
The soft red of the flowering willow-herb
So vividly is pictured. Seems it not

E'en melting to a more transparent glow
In that pure glass? Oh! beautiful are streams!
And, through all ages, human hearts have loved
Their music, still accordant with each mood
Of sadness or of joy. And love hath grown
Into vain worship, which hath left its trace
On sculptured urn and altar, gleaming still
Beneath dim olive boughs, by many a fount

Of Italy and Greece. But we will take

Our lesson e'en from erring hearts, which blessed The river Deities or fountain Nymphs,

For the cool breeze, and for the freshening shade,

supreme,

And the sweet water's tune. The One
The all-sustaining, ever-present God,
Who dowered the soul with immortality,
Gave also these delights, to cheer on earth
Its fleeting passage; therefore let us greet
Each wandering flower scent as a boon from Him,

Each bird-note, quivering midst light summer leaves,
And every rich celestial tint unnamed,

Wherewith transpierced, the clouds of morn and eve, Kindle and melt away!

And now, in love,

In grateful thoughts rejoicing, let us bend
Our footsteps onward to the dell of flowers
Around the ruined mansion. Thou, my boy,

Not yet, I deem, hast visited that lorn

But lovely spot, whose loveliness for thee