more happiness know.

Lines on Receiving a Bunch of Wild Hyacinths by Post.

Sweet, drooping, azure tinted bells,
How dear you are;
Bringing the scent of shady dells,
To me from far;
Telling of spring and gladsome sunny hours,--
Nature's bright jewels!=-heart-refreshing flowers!

Oh, for a stroll when opening day
Silvers the dew,
Kissing the buds, whilst zephyrs play
As though they knew
Their gentle breath was needed, just to shake
Your slumbering beauties, and to bid you wake.

Far from the moilding town and trade,
How sweet to spend
An hour amid the misty glade,
And find a friend
In every tiny blossom, and to lie,
And dream of Him whose love can never die.

Ye are Gael's messengers, sent here
To make us glad;
Mute, and yet eloquent, to cheer
The heart that's sad;
To turn our thoughts from sordid earthly gains,
To that bright home where peace for ever reigns.

How dare we murmur, when around
On every side,
Such proofs of His great love abound,
O'er the world wide?
Faith cannot die within these hearts of ours,
If we but learn the lessons of the flowers.

Thanks to the one whose kindly heart
Was moved to send
This gift, when we were far apart,
To cheer a friend.
Sweet meditation now my mind employs;
A pleasure pure, and one which never cloys.

November's Here.

Dullest month of all the year,--
Suicidal atmosphere,
Everything is dark and drear,
Filling nervous minds with fear,
Skies are seldom ever clear,
Fogs are ever hov'ring near,--
'Tis a heavy load to bear.

Were it not that life is dear,
We should wish to disappear,
For it puts us out of gear.

But in vain we shed the tear,
We must still cling to the rear
Of the year that now is near.

Though our eyes begin to blear,
With fogs thick enough to shear,
And we feel inclined to swear,
At the month that comes to smear
All things lovely, all things dear;
We must bear and yet forbear.

But some thoughts our spirits cheer,
Christmas time will soon be here,
Then at thee we'll scoff and jeer,
Smoke our pipes and drink our beer,--
Sit until brave chanticleer
Tells us that the morn is here.

Do thy worst, November drear!
We can stand it, never fear,--
Christmas time will soon be here.

Mary.

My Mary's as sweet as the flowers that grow,
By the side of the brooklet that runs near her cot;
Her brow is as