God shield ye, heralds of the spring.
Ye faithful swallows, fleet of wing,
Houps, cuckoos, nightingales.
Turtles, and every wilder bird,
That make your hundred chirpings heard
Through the green woods and dales.
God shield ye, Easter daisies all.
Fair roses, buds, and blossoms small,
And lie whom erst the gore
Of Ajax and Narciss did print,
Ye wild thyme, anise, balm, and mint,
I welcome ye once more.
God shield ye, bright embroider'd train
Of butterflies, that on the plain.
Of each sweet herblet sip;
And ye, new swarms of bees, that go
Where the pink flowers and yellow grow.
To kiss them with your lip.
A hundred thousand times I call
A hearty welcome on ye all:
This season how I love--
This merry din on every shore--
For winds and storms, whose sullen roar
Forbade my steps to rove.
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When I was a child joyfully I ran, hand claspt in hand, now with my mother, now with my father, or with younger, blithe companions, now in sunlight, now in shadow and dread, through the strange new Valley of Life.
Sometimes on the high-road, then over the fields and meadows, or through the solemn forests; sometimes along the happy brook-side, listening to its music or the clamor of the falls, as the pleasant waters hurried or grew still, in the winding way down the Valley of Life.
And as we moved along, hand claspt in hand, sometimes the handclasp was broken, and I, a happy child, ran swiftly from the path to gather flower or fruit or get sight of a singing bird; or to lean down and pluck a pearly stone from under the lapping waves; or climbed a tree and swayed, shouting, on its waving boughs - then returning to the clasp of loving hands, and so passing on and on down the opening Valley of Life.
In the bright morning I walked wondering, wondering I walked through the still twilight and many-colored sunset; watching the great stars gather, and lost in the mystery of worlds beyond number, and spaces beyond thought, till, side by side, we lay down to sleep under the stars in the Valley of Life and of Dreams.
Then there came a time when the hands that held me, - the loving hands that guided my steps and drew me gently on, - turned cold, and slipt from my grasp; I waited, but they came not back, and slowly and alone I plodded on down the Valley of Life and of Death.
"Where went they?" I asked my heart and the whispering waters and the sighing trees. "Where went my loving and well-beloved guides? Did they climb the hills and tarry; did they, tired, lie down to sleep and forget me forever; leaving me to journey on without their dear care down the Long Valley of Life?"
I could not know, for I heard no answer except my own heart's beating. But other comrades came, - one dearer than all, - and as time went on I felt the little hands of my own children clasping mine while, once more happy and elate, with them I traveled down the miraculous Valley of Life.
But, as on we wander, hearing their bright voices, and seeing their joy upon the way, - their happy chasings here and there, their eager run to hold again our hands, - how soon, I think, shall I feel the slipping away of the clasping fingers while I fall asleep by the wayside, or climb the cloud-enveloped hills, and leave those I love to journey on down the lonely Valley of Life!
And I say: "Surely the day and the hour hasten; grief will be theirs for a season: then will they, as did I, with brave hearts journey on the appointed way."
That sweet singer and musical composer, who has done so much for popular American church music, Dr. Lowell Mason, died but a short time since, at an advanced age. Long years ago he had buried his first-born, a lovely boy, named Daniel. About his dying bed friends gathered to watch the ebbing out of life. He had taken his final farewell of the loved ones he was leaving behind. The spirit was still hovering on the confines of the body. Suddenly he opened his eyes. He looked upward with an earnest, intent look. "Daniel, may I come?" he said. And then with a smile of recognition, he added: "Let me come!" And he went. Father and son were once more together. Bishop Fallows
Flowers speak the language of the heart. They convey the most personal and individual sentiment, while appealing to common universal taste and imagination. This characteristic of flowers, fits them especially for uses of religion and of church service, since they both express private affections of the giver and enrich symbolism of the altar. A basket or cross of flowers can say all the heart wishes to say, and say it without obtruding personal feeling. In medieval times flowers spoke a definite language, the interpretation of which has seemed almost lost. The palm--the ancient classical symbol of victory--was early assumed by Christians as a symbol of martyrdom. It was placed into hands of those who suffered in the cause of truth, as expressing their final victory over powers of sin and death. It also figured on tombs of early martyrs.
