_Wild Flowers Gathered For My Wife._

Though these sweet flowers are in their freshest bloom, They had a beauty as I gathered them Which thine eye sees not. For with every one New lustre in the varied colors shone, A purer white melted beneath the eye, A sweeter fragrance came from dew-gemmed leaves, Advanced in beauty as I thought of thee.

Thou seest that they grew wild in wood and fields Teachers of love and wisdom. Some I found In deep pine shades, where the sun's straggling beams Through bending boughs may reach them.

Holier rays Through deeper shades can reach the broken heart, Through deeper shades can foster heavenly growth Of beauty for the everlasting fields; Through more dense shades can reach the good unknown To human fame, yet left to bless the world.

These flowers and leaves that ripen unobserved But for our eyes, had withered with the frost, And none had blessed God for their loveliness. They give their little power unto the wind To purify for men the air they breathe,-- Air wafted far by every rising breeze. And so a myriad of the little deeds, Done by the men that walk in Christ's blest steps, Add health unto the living atmosphere Where men breathe for the strength of highest life. Deeds go out on a sea of human life, And touch a myriad of the rolling waves, Send the great sea a portion of unrest, Which saves its surface from the mould of death.

These flowers are memories that I had of thee During my wandering to the distant home, Where sickness was, and many an anxious care, Where there was need that Christ's work should be done.

Oh! if these paths we tread with our soiled feet, On this world far from scenes where all is pure, Our feet not yet in laver cleansed from soil, In wave by angel stirred and all so bright, Where gleams are on the waves from his own sun, Are skirted with these fragrant beauteous forms, What shall surround our path in Paradise?

Flowers have a language; so they choose to say. Each speaks a word of pure significance. Thus in the fields of nature we can print, Where flowers shall be the type, a beauteous book-- With joyful eye can read the beauteous book.

With all my love of flowers, here is a lore Which is to me unknown. I have to turn Over the pages of that pictured book To spell each letter as a little child. But this I know, that none can e'er mean ill. Flowers are too pure, as angels sowed their seed On earth in pity for a burdened race. And where their smiles have rested there came forth These witnesses that men are not alone.

And also this is lore from nature's school-- That speak they as they may--whate'er they mean Of faith to be unshaken through our life, Of love that never wanes, true as the star, They cannot speak of faith or tender love, Which I--flower-bearer--do not speak to thee In this my offering of far-gathered spoils.

X.