‘These to His Mem’ry since He held them Dear.’ The wise old gardener went through His plants to give them light and dew, And much he loved when green or gold Their leaves or calices unfold ; Oft wasted love on promising stem, And lower in their being’s scale The tender plants must oftenest fail To feel what he had felt for them. The few that with a swifter sense Were bless’d or curs’d, with silent praise, Would vibrate, poor dumb recompense For his wise guidance of their days. And when he pass’d away, a tear Stained one rooted flow’r, which wrench’d That petal with a pang unquench’d, And the winds bore it to his bier. Israel Davis .