FLOWERS.
Man that is born of a woman is of few days, and full of trouble.
He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down.—Job, xiv. 1, 2.
As for man, his days are as grass: as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth.—Psalm ciii. 15.
Consider the lilies how they grow: they toil not, they spin not; and yet I say unto you, that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.
If then God so clothe the grass, which is to-day in the field, and to-morrow is cast into the oven; how much more will He clothe you, O ye of little faith.—Luke, xii. 27, 28.
Let the brother of low degree rejoice in that he is exalted:
But the rich in that he is made low: because as the flower of the grass, he shall pass away.—James, i. 9, 10.
For all flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man as the flower of grass. The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away: but the word of the Lord endureth for ever.—I. Peter, i. 24, 25.
When with a serious musing I behold
The grateful and obsequious marigold;
How duly every morning she displays
Her open breast. When Titan spreads his rays,
How she observes him in his daily walk.
Still bending towards him her small slender stalk.
For when he down declines, she droops and mourns,
Bedew’d as ’twere, with tears till he returns;
And how she veils her flowers when he is gone,
As if she scorned to be looked on
By an inferior eye, or did contemn
To wait upon a meaner light than him.
When thus I meditate, methinks the flowers
Have spirits far more generous than ours;
And give us fair examples to despise
The servile fawning and idolatries
Wherewith we court these earthly things below,
Which merit not the service we bestow.
George Wither.
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
Wordsworth.
Foster the good, and thou shalt tend the flower
Already sown on earth;—
Foster the beautiful, and every hour,
Thou call’st new flowers to birth.
Schiller.
The enlivening sap,
Obedient to Thy laws, through fitted tubes
Ascends fermenting, and, at length, matured,
Breaks forth in gems, and germinates in leaves.
By Thee each family of flowers is clothed
In one unvarying dress, and breathes the same
Transmitted essences; and though the loom
No virgin fingers ply to swell her pride,
The lily shines, more gorgeously arrayed
Than monarchs, where the East, with hand profuse,
Showers on their pomp barbaric, pearl and gold.
Smart.
There is a lesson in each flower,
A story in each stream and bower;
In every herb on which you tread
Are written words, which, rightly read,
Will lead you from earth’s fragrant sod,
To hope, and holiness, and God.
Allan Cunningham.
When spring returns, the little children play,
In the grave-yard of the cathedral grey,
Busy as morning bees, and gather flowers—
Daisies and gold-cups—of the hurrying hours
Thoughtless as unsolicitous, though time
Speeds like a spectre, and their playful prime
Bears on to sorrow. Angel! cry aloud!
Speak of the knell, the grave-worm and the shroud!
No! let them play! for solitude and care
Too soon will teach them what poor mortals are.
Yes! let them play, but as their thoughts expand,
May smiling pity lead them by the hand,
When they look up, and in the clouds admire
The lessening shaft of that aërial spire,
So be their thoughts uplifted from the sod,
Where time’s brief flowers they gather to their God.
W. Lisle Bowles.
This cottage door, this gentle gale,
Hay-scented, whispering round,
Yon path-side rose, that down the vale,
Breathes incense from the ground,
Methinks should from the dullest clod,
Invite the thankful heart to God.
But, Lord, the violet bending low,
Seems better moved to praise;
From us what scanty blessings flow,
How voiceless close our days;—
Father, forgive us, and the flowers
Shall lead in prayer the vesper hours.
James T. Fields.
Flowers! wherefore do ye bloom?
—We strew the pathway to the tomb!
J. Montgomery.
God might have made the earth bring forth
Enough for great and small—
The oak tree and the cedar tree,
Without a flower at all.
He might have made enough, enough,
For every want of ours,
For luxury, medicine, and toil,
And yet have made no flowers.
Our outward life requires them not,
Then wherefore had they birth?
To minister delight to man—
To beautify the earth;
To whisper hope, to comfort man,
Whene’er his faith is dim;
For whoso careth for the flowers,
Will care much more for him.
Mary Howitt.
“See,” said Marian unto me,
Standing by the cressy brook,
“How my wealth of flowers increaseth;
Have they not a pleasant look?”
“Deeper still,” I said unto her,
“There the ceaseless worm alway
Feeds upon the living flower,
Drooping, drooping to decay.”
“Deeper yet,” said Marian,
“Love, and thank the love that giveth;
In the death of every one,
Future wealth uncounted liveth.”
J. B. Kington.