We plant to-day within the mould,
The stock that needs Thy tender care;
Send deep its roots, its buds unfold
In answer to our faith and prayer.
THE ROSE.
When dewy morn of balmy June
Awakes and blushes in the East,
When song birds pipe their sweetest tune
And Nature spreads her grandest feast,
Among the rare and fragrant plants
Whose petals most of heaven disclose,
In foremost rank—far in advance—
There stands the sprightly, smiling rose.
Its home is on the wide, wide plains,
In valleys where wild torrents foam,
In solitudes where silence reigns,
And by the cotter's humble home.
It cheers alike the rich and poor
On Alpine heights, or by the sea,
By castle wall or peasant's door—
It justly claims ubiquity.
Could blushing beauty born of heaven,
Or world-wide worship win the prize,
Could fragrance, fancy, fame, or even
The rich rays of reflected skies
Soothe sorrows sharp and scorching sting
And give the world complete repose,
Then men should shout and children sing—
"The flower of State must be the Rose!"
THE GOLDENROD.
When August sunset's yellow blaze
Streams out o'er meadow, field and lawn,
It seeks some shrine wherein its rays
May linger till returning dawn,
And touching gently with its sheen
That graceful plumage of the sod,
Its constellated gems of green
Are changed to glorious Goldenrod.
Its home is in the sterile soil
Deserted by the rustic swain
Because it yields not for his toil
The recompense he would obtain.
By wall and ledge, and rock, and mound,
Where'er neglect and ruin reign
In greatest beauty there 'tis found,
To cheer and clothe the earth again.