While on the fresh, young, dimpled cheek,
   The bloom is like those vernal flowers,
   Whose fragrance fills our woodland bowers. 
   Those speaking eyes the power have caught,
   To mirror forth the germs of thought;
   Their silent language, deep and strong,
   Can touch the hidden springs of song;
   Their melting beams can reach the mind,
   Where they our best affections find. 
   Why did these twin-born, smiling boys,
   Come here to wake maternal joys,
   In that fond, faithful mother’s breast,
   Where they could but a moment rest? 
   With love too deep for words to speak,
   She pressed each tender infant cheek,
   With quivering lips and falt’ring breath,
   Before the opening gates of death,
   While faintly burned the vital spark,
   Within life’s frail and shattered bark,
   Just mooring in the port of bliss,
   She paused to steal one last, fond kiss. 
   In death’s embrace those lips were cold,
   Ere half their thrilling tale was told;
   The mother and her babes must part,
   Before the tender infant heart,
   By her soft winning tones, had learned
   What love within her bosom burned
   Before her counsels, blessed and wise,
   Could train her offspring to the skies. 
   Sweet babes! so helpless, frail and fair,
   Why here, without her watchful care? 
   Your sainted brother never wept
   Beside the grave, where loved ones slept,
   While clouds were gathering round his head,
   He to the Savior’s bosom fled. 
   Then why not plume your tiny wings,
   And soar to where your mother sings? 
   Why tarry on this barren shore;
   Till waves of trouble round you roar?

   Ah! now I know; you linger here,
   Your father’s lonely hours to cheer. 
   Death would not pluck the last fair flower,
   That bloomed in his connubial bower;
   He fondly loves his orphan boys,
   They half restore his withered joys. 
   Sweet rosebuds, springing from the tomb,
   Long round his hearthstone may you bloom,
   With smiles of love your father greet,
   And fill your mother’s vacant seat.

THE CULTIVATION OF FLOWERS.

Where can we find a more healthy and delightful employment, than the cultivation of flowers?  Though of less importance than those plants which are necessary for the support of animal life, yet, rightly considered, they yield a pleasant and instructive entertainment for the intellectual powers, and may justly be termed food for the mind.

“Nonsense” some of our readers exclaim, “Nonsense, to talk of feeding the immortal mind, with flowers!  For one, I think people may find some more useful employment than that of persuading their fellow beings to spend the precious hours of this short life upon these useless playthings.”