Flowers grow in sweet societies,
O'er meadow, hill, and dale;
Mingle their colours to our eyes,
Their perfumes in the gale.

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Sprung from the dust, they rise above
The meanness of their birth;
They look to heaven, and yet they love
To beautify the earth.

Not birds more duly build and sing,
Nor stars in turn appear,
Than these their splendid legions bring,
To crown and close the year.

They toil not, neither do they spin,
And yet their Maker's will,
Exempt from sorrow, as from sin,
They live but to fulfil.

Ah! thus might He that made us see
Our Sabbath Schools increase;
And while we dwell in unity,
In Him may we have peace;--

Like flowers from Him receive, dispense
The fragrance of His grace;
And when, like flowers, transplanted hence,
May fairer fill our place.