MY FLOWER-POT.



CONCORD, N. H.: RUFUS MERRILL.



CHILD'S PICTURE BOOK.



CONCORD, N. H.: RUFUS MERRILL.





I love the flowers, the fragrant flowers! They're fairy things to me; They seem like angels sent to bless, And teach of purity.



MY FLOWER-POT.



FLOWERS.

There is beauty in flowers When kissed by the showers That fall in the bowers Of gardens so fair, When music is telling In notes that are swelling, And love is excelling, Aloft in the air.



Birds now are singing, Deep valleys are ringing, And harmony bringing Content to the mind. Flowers are caressing, And sending a blessing To all now confessing To be to them kind.



Minds soon are roving To lands that are blooming Afar from the glooming Of woe and despair, Saying, "Come to the bowers Filled with rare flowers— Nature's kind dowers, Free as the air."



Come, my love, and do not spurn From a little flower to learn: See the lily on the bed, Hanging down its modest head; While it scarcely can be seen, Folded in its leaf of green.



Yet we love the lily well, For its sweet and pleasant smell, And would rather call it ours Than many other gayer flowers; Pretty lilies seem to be Emblems of humility.

'Tis not beauty that we prize,— Like a summer flower it dies.



But humility will last, Fair and sweet, when beauty's past; And the Saviour, from above, Views a humble child with love.

Come, my love, and do not spurn From a little flower to learn: Let your temper be as sweet As the lily at your feet; Be as gentle, be as mild: Be a modest, simple child.



The Forget-me-not.

There is a sweet, a lovely flower, Tinged deep with faith's unchanging hue, Pure as the ether in its hour Of loveliest and serenest blue.

The streamlet's gentle side it seeks, The silent fount, the shaded grot; And sweetly to the heart it speaks— Forget-me-not, forget-me-not.



See the flowers, how they grow; Hear the winds that gently blow. Bird and insect, flower and tree, Know they must not idle be; Each has something it must do— Little children, so must you.



The buds and the blossoms, How bright to the view! Like jewels and diamonds, They sparkle with dew.

The sun's rising beams Have greeted each flower: How lovely the scene, How peaceful the hour!



All nature awakens From a night of soft sleep, And the insects once more From their hiding-holes creep.

The old birds have flown Far away to get food, While anxiously wait Their timid young brood.

To our Father in heaven Our voices we'll raise, With feelings most fervent, In songs to his praise.

Dear Saviour, to love thee Our hearts are inclined; Oh, teach us, we pray thee, Thy precepts to mind!

Upon our heart-garden, Oh, let thy love rain, Like fresh summer showers Upon the young grain.

Like soft, gentle dew Upon the dry earth, Which opens the old buds, And to new ones gives birth.



O, teach us to offer Good deeds in thy praise, And acts of true charity Be the hymns that we raise.

From all that will harm us, Or sorrow will bring, Oh, keep us, dear Lord, Beneath thy bright wing.



WHO MADE THE FLOWERS?

Say, Ma! did God make all the flowers That richly bloom to-day? And is it he that sends sweet showers To make them look so gay?

Did he make all the mountains That rear their heads so high? And all the little fountains That glide so gently by?

And does he care for children small? Say, Ma! does God love me? Has he the guardian care of all The various things we see?

Yes! yes! my child, he made them all,— Flowers, mountains, plants and tree; No man so great, no child so small, That from his eye can flee!



RUFUS MERRILL,

OPPOSITE GASS' HOTEL,

CONCORD, N. H.

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