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Forget me not!" where'er ye roam ;
Wee prattlers of that heavenly care

That guards man's footsteps everywhere!
Sweet Alpine Flowers.

APPLE BLOSSOMS.

[A chromo by L. Prang ]

O Apple Blooms! Ye tell of waving boughs,
Of verdant fields where breezes go and come,

Of fragrant clover and the breath of cows,

And in your own sweet buds the wild bees' hum.

Ye breathe of scenes of innocence and peace,

Where the mind wanders forth with Nature free, Enjoys the sounds that never tire nor cease,

The sounds of moving life from vale and lea.

Ye speak of Spring's fair promise, Autumn's yield; The thread Joy weaves in Nature's ceaseless song, Whose rhythm rises up from hill and field;

Throughout the year its cadence floats along.

And ye shall bloom amid the wintry hours;

Bring to our storm-clad days the insect's hum; The bird's soft warble and the scent of flowers;

Nature, herself, a welcome Guest shall come,

And to the heart grown cold, O Flowers, renew
The glowing freshness of its early hours!

On narrowing thoughts shed down a quick'ning dew,
And bid the dry, dead bough bring forth its flowers!

FLOWERS OF HOPE.

[Suggested by the chromo representing Trailing Arbutus or Plymouth May Flowers in their freshest beauty, placed in a pearl colored shell on a table; a veil resting on the corner of the table conveys the idea that a person has just come from a ramble].

How freshly forth ye start

When Earth's brown lips first part

To tell of what the months shall bring;

With sweetest breath, in mirth,

Ye kiss the waking Earth,

The while ye to her bosom closely cling.

O sweet, low-blushing Flowers!

Ye tell of Childhood's hours;

That time of beauty, fragrance, joy;

Where Mem'ry lingers still,

No wintry blast can chill,

No sorrow change it, free from earth's alloy.

On you the Pilgrim's eye

Resting in days gone by,

Drank in new promise from the Spring;

His path of toil and death.

Ye cheered with sweetest breath,

And bade his gloomy thoughts how oft take wing!

O sweet, sweet Pilgrim Flowers!

Preaching in forest bowers

That God, the Father, cares for all;

Whose fragrance on the air

Floats like a passing prayer

To Him, who heeds the lowliest suppliant's call.

THE WOODBINE.

Let England boast of the ivy,

We sing of the brave woodbine ; Whose tendrils cling, in the early spring, With the softest green that ever was seen; Or float in the winds of Autumn

As red as the crimson wine.

It covers no lordly castle

Of old and bloody renown,

No abbey gray in its slow decay,
No convent old with its graceful fold;
But it decks our modest temples
With its verdant, shining crown.

It mantles the poor man's cottage;
On the shingles rusty and gray,

All over the roof with its thick green woof,

With its berries blue that come peeping through,

It spins its long green tresses,

Like a mermaid's hair in the spray.

O'er neglected graves it creepeth

In the lonely dark church-yard;

It nestles and clings, where no floweret springs,
Above the dead with its green or red,

As if Nature's heart for the lone ones
Still beat 'neath the tangled sward!

Over the green of the forest

Its graceful branches twine;

Its leaflets red on the green moss shed,
Or they softly fold o'er the walnut's gold.
Let others sing of the ivy,

We boast of the brave woodbine !

TO A TUFT OF GRASS.

O tuft of dry grass on the road's rough side,

Fringing Earth's garment, travel stained and worn; Grown, ripened, seeded, yet no hand hath plucked, Why wert thou born?

Earth brought thee forth an atom of that life
That fills her mighty bosom yearning deep;
One of the countless germs the sunbeam's rife
Lured from its sleep.

To see the light, to feel the sun's warm gaze, To catch the rain-drop glittering on its way, With thy thin fingers drop forth ripened seeds, Then pass away.

Unto the eye, all feeble as thou art,

Thou hast a voice to stay the passing thought, As thou, so we, like atoms, form a part,

Thus earthward brought.

Nature bestows upon us, too, her smile;
Short-lived like thee, we fade and pass away-
So may we live to guide one wanderer's eye,
To sow good seed on earth, ere passes by,
Our little day.

WILD FLOWERS.

Sweet flowers that spring from vale and hill,
Without a thought, without a care,

Untended e'er, yet thriving still,

Fragrant and pure, like Nature's prayer!

When wakes the brown earth from her rest,
Like dusky maid of tropic clime,

Ye in her hair and o'er her breast

With cunning blossoms weave and climb.

Beside each rock and by each stream
Your fairy petals stoop to kiss,