I’ve seen the sweet violet deck the green sod,
   All fresh from the hand of a bountiful God,
   While soft whisp’ring zephyrs breathed this in my ear,
   “The wisdom of God in these blossoms appear.”

   I’ve looked on the mayflower, spring’s earliest child,—­
   It peeped from the snowdrift and modestly smiled;
   I’ve plucked the fair lily, arrayed in fair white,
   And drank in its fragrance with heartfelt delight.

   Yet blossoms that smile in the green woodland bower,
   Ne’er rival this sweet intellectual flower;
   This blossom sprang up from the depths of the mind,—­
   The heart’s thrilling fibres its tendrils entwine,

   Affection’s pure fountain has watered the germ,
   The bright sun of intellect cherished its form,
   It’s petals were colored in fancy’s rich dye,
   Till they, with the hues of the rainbow may vie;
   I’ll pluck thee, sweet blossom, pure fragrance I find,
   When the rich perfumes are inhaled by the mind.

FOOTNOTES: 

   [Footnote 5:  A volume of poems.]

THE MINISTER

At the family altar.  Composed for the Rev.  W. Foss, of Leeds.

   The father, still in manhood’s prime,
     Was bowed in humble prayer;
   His partner, fair as when a bride,
     Was kneeling by him there.

   Reclining on a sister’s arm,
     The babe found sweet repose;
   While from the heart, in accents warm,
     The father’s prayer arose.

   And, fair as rosebuds bathed in dew;
     By morning zephyrs fanned,
   A blooming group of loved ones, too,
     Was ranged on either hand.

   As many children God had given,
     As good old Jacob had;
   That he might meet them all in heaven,
     How fervently he prayed.

   What deep emotions filled my breast,
     That scene my spirit stirred;
   Will not that family be blessed,
     That prayer in heaven be heard?

   Though oft his duty calls abroad,
     Salvation’s news to bear,
   The father leaves his charge with God,
     Confiding in his care.

AN APPEAL FOR IRELAND.

“Cast thy bread upon the waters, for thou shall find it after many days.”—­Ecel. xi; 1.

   Hark! hear the cry of Erin’s sons,
     By plague and famine frantic;
   The wail of wives and little ones
     Comes o’er the broad Atlantic.

   O, heed the bitter piercing cry,
     That’s pealing o’er the ocean;
   To us, to us, for aid they fly,
     As Israel fled to Goshen.

   List! hear that sad and mournful sound,
     It is the parent sighing;
   Beside him, on the damp cold ground. 
     His darling ones are lying.