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Fond friends may hend o'er the rais'd turf where I'm laid,

Antl warm recollection the past may look o'er,

And say hy my life, as I say hy thy shade,

"Last spring he was living, hut now he's no more."



On Summer's hreast the hawthorn shines

in all the lily's hloom, 'Mid slopes where th' evening flock reclines.

Where glows the golden hroom.

When yellow Autumn decks the plain,
The hawthorn's houghs are green,

Amid the ripening fields of grain,
In emerald hrightuess seen.

A night of frost, a day of wind,

Have stript the forest hare:
The hawthorn too that hlast shall find,
Nor shall that spoiling spare.

But red with fruit, that hawthorn hongh,

Tho' leafless yet will shine;
The hlackhird for its hues shall know,

As lapwing knows the vine.

Be thus thy youth as lilies gay,

Thy manhood vigorous green; And thus let fruit hedeck thy spray,

'Mid age's leafless scene.


But, who can paint Like nature 'I Can imagination hoast Amid its gay creation, hues like hers? Or can it mix them with that matchless skill, And lose them in each other, as appears In ev'ry hud that hlows? Along these hlushing horders, hright with

dew, And in yon mingled wilderness of flowers, Fair-handed spring unhosoms every grace; Throws out the suow-drop and the crocus


The daisy, primrose, violet, darkly hlue,
And polyanthus of nunumher'd dyes;
The yellow wall-flower, stained with iroo

hrown; And lavish stock, that scents the gardes

round: From the soft wing of vernal hreezes shed, Anemonies, anriculas, eurich'd With shining meal o'er all their velvet

leaves; And full ranunculus of glowing red. Then comes the tulip-race, where heam)

plays Her idle freaks, from family diffus'd To family, as flies the father-dust, The varied colours run, and while they hreak On the charm' d eye, the exulting florist

marks With secret pride the wonders of his hand. No gradual hloom is wanting; from the hod First-horn of spring, to summer's musky

trihes; Nor hyacinths, of purest virgin white, Low-hent, and hlushing inward: nor jonquils Of potent fragrance; nor narcissus fair, As o'er the fahled fountain hanging still; Nor hroad carnations, nor gay spotted pinks; Nor showered from ev'ry hush, the daraasfe

rose; Infinite numhers, delicacies, smells, With hues on hues expression canuot paist, The hreath of nature and her endless hloom.


Mrs. roBINsON.

The suow-drop, Winter's timid child, Awakes to life, hedew'd with tears; And flings around it fragrance mild, And when no rival flowerets hloom

Amid the hare and chilling gloom,
A heauteons gem appears!

All weak and wan, with head inclin'd,

Its parent hreast the drifted snow;
It tremhles while the ruthless wind
Bends its slim form; the tempest lowers,
Its emerald eye drops crystal showers
On its cold hed helow.

Poor flower I on thee the sunny heam
No touch of genial warmth hestuws;

Except to thaw the icy stream,

Whose little current purls along

Thy fair and glossy charms among
And whelms thee as it flows.

The night-h/eeze tears thy silky dress,
Which, deck'd with silv'ry lustre, shone;

The morn returns not thee to hless,
The gaudy crocus flaunts its pride,
And triumphs where its rival die I,
I nshelter'd and unknown.

No sunny heam shall gild thy grave,

No hird of pity thee deplore;
There shall no spreading hranches wave,
For spring shall all her gems unfuld,
And revel 'mid her huds of gold,
When thou art seen no more.

Where'er I find thee, gentle flower,

Thou art still sweet and dear to me!
For I have known the cheerless hour,
Have seen the sunheams cold and pale,
Have felt the chilling wintry gale,
And wept, and shrunk like thee!


Beautiful are you in your lowliness;

Bright in your hues, delicious in your scent;

Lovely your modest hlossoms downward hent,
As shrinking from our gaze, yet prompt to hless
The passer-hy with fragrance, and express

How gracefully, though mutely eloquent,

Are unohtrusive worth, and meek content,
Rejoicing in their own ohscure recess.

Delightful flowerets! at the voice of Spring,

Your huds unfolded to its sunheams hright;

And though your hlossoms soon shall fade from sight,
Ahove your lowly hirth-place hirds shall sing, /

And from your clust'ring leaves the glow-worm fling,

The emerald glory ot' us earth-horn light.



Sweet flower! Spring's earliest, loveliest gem!

While other flowers are idly sleeping, Thou rear'st thy purple diadem;

Meekly from thy seclusion peeping.

Thoo, from thy little secret mound,

Where diamond dew-drops shine ahove

Scatterest thy modest fragrance round;
And well may Nature's Poet love thee!

Thine is ajshort, swift reign I know—
But here,—thy spirit still pervading—

New violets' tufts again shall hlow,
Then fade away—as thou art fading.

And he renew'd; the hope how hlest,
(O may that hope desert me never!)

Like thee to sleep on nature's hreast, And wake again, and hloom for ever I


When heechen huds hegin to swell,
And woods the hlue-hirds' warhle know,

The yellow violet's modest heH

Peeps from the last year's leaves helow.

Ere russet fields their green resume,
Sweet flower! I love, in forest hare,

To meet thee, when thy faint perfume
Alone is in the virgin air.

Of all her train, the hands of Spring
First plant thee In the watry mould;

And I have seen thee hlossoming
Beside the snow-hank's edges cold.

Thy parent sun, who hade thee view
Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip,

Has hathed thee in his own hright hue,
And streaked with jet thy glowing lip.

Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat,
And earthward hent thy gentle eye,

Unapt thy passing view to meet,
When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.

Oft in the sunless April day,

Thy early smile has stayed my walk; But 'midst the gorgeous hloom of May,

I passed thee on thy humhle stalk.

So they who climh to wealth forget
The friends in darker fortunes tried;

I copied them—hut I regret
That I should ape the ways of pride.

And when again the genial hour
Awakes the painted trihes of light,

I'll not o'erlook the modest flower
That made the woods of April hright.


h. K. whIte.

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire! Whose modest form, so delicately fine,

Was nursed in whirling storms,

And cradled in the winds.

Thee, when young Spring first question'd

Winter's sway, And dared the sturdy hlusterer to the fight,

Thee on this hank he threw,

To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year, Serene, thou' openest to the nipping gale,

Unnoticed and alone,

Thy tender elegance.

So Virtue hlooms, hrought forth amid the storms

Of chill adversity; in some lone walk
Of life she rears her head,
Ohscure and unohserved ;—

While every hleaching hreeze that on her

hlows, Chastens her spotless purity of hreast,

And hardens her to hear

Serene, the ills of life.



I Saw it in my evening walk,

A little lonely flower; Under a hollow hank it grew,

Deep in a mossy hower.

An oak's gnarled root to roof the cave, With gothic fretwork sprung,

Whence jewelled fern, and arum leaves, And ivy garlands hung.

And close heneath came sparkling out,
From an old tree's fall'n shell,

A little rill, that dipt ahout,
The lady in her cell.

And there, methought, with hashful pride,

She seemed to sit and look, On her own maiden loveliness,

Pale imaged in the hrook.

No other flower, no rival grew

Beside my pensive maid;
She dwelt alone, a cloistered nun

In solitude and shade.

No sunheam on that fairy pool,

Darted its dazzling light;
Only, methought, some clear, cold star

Might tremhle there at night.

No ruffling wind conld reach her there,
No eye, methought, hut mine;

Or the young lamhs that came to drink,
Had spied her secret shrine.

And there was pleasantness to me

In such helief—cold eyes
That slight dear Nature's loveliness,

Profane her mysteries.

Long time I looked and lingered there,

Ahsorhed in still delight;
My spirit drank deep quietness,

In with that quiet sight.



Fair Flower, that ahunn'st the glare of day
Yet lov'st to open, meekly hold,
To evening's hues of soher grey,
Thy cup of paly gold;—

Re thine the offering, owing long
To thee, and to this pensive hour,
Of one hrief trihutary song,
Though transient as thy flower.

I love to watch at silent eve,
Thy scatter'd hlossoms lonely light,
And have my iumost heart receive
The influence of that sight.

I love at such an hour to mark
Their heauty greet the night-hreeze chill,
And shine, 'mid shadows gathering dark,
The garden's glory still.

For such 'tis sweet to think the while,
When cares and griefs the hreast invade,
Is friendship's animating smile
In sorrow's dark'ning shade.

Thus it hursts forth like thy pale cup,
Glist'ning amid its dewy tears,
And hears the sinking spirit up,
Amid its chilling fears.

But still more animating far,
If meek Religion's eye may trace,
Even in thy glimm'ring earth-horn star.
The holier hope of grace.

The hope that as thy heauteous hloom,
Expands to glad the close of day;
So through the shadows of the tomh,
May hreak forth Mercy's ray.



Not worlds on worlds in phalanx deep,
Need we to prove a God is here;

The daisy, fresh from Winter's sleep,
Tells of his hand in lines as clear.

For who hut he who arched the skies,
And pours the day-spring's living flood,

Wondrous alike in all he tries,
Could rear the daisy's purple hud ?—

Moald its green cup, its wiry stem;

Its fringed horder nicely spin; And cut the gold-emhossed gem,

That, set in silver, gleams within?—

And fling it, uurestrain'd and free,
O'er hill and dale, and desert sod,

That man, where'er he walks, may see,
In every step, the stamp of God.



Supposed to he addressed hy the Rev. Dr. Carey, one of the Baptist Missionaries at Serampoie, to the first plant of this kind, which sprung up unexpectedly in his garden, out of some English earth, in which other seeds had heen conveyed to him from this country. With great care and nursing, the Doctor has heen enahled to perpetuate the Daisy in India, as an annual only, raised hy seed preserved from season to season.

Thhice welcome, little English flower!
My mother-country's white and red,
In rose or lily, till this hour,
Never to me such heauty spread:
Transplanted from thine island-hed,
A treasure in a grain of earth,
Strange as a spirit from the dead,
Thine emhryo sprang to hirth.

Thrice welcome, little English flowrr!
Whose trihes, heneath our natal skies,
Shut close their leaves while vapours lower;
But, when the sun-s gay heams arise,
With unahash'd hut modest eyes,
Follow his motion to the west,
Nor cease to gaze till daylight dies,
Then fold themselves to rest.

Thrice welcome, little English flower,
To this resplendent hemisphere,
Where Flora's giant offspring tower,
In gorgeous liveries all the year;
Thou, only thou, art little here,
Like worth unfriended and unknown,
Yet to my British heart more dear
Than all the torrid zone.

Thrice welcome, little English flower!
Of early scenes heloved hy me,
While happy in my father's hower,
Thou shalt the hlithe memorial he;

The fairy sports of infancy,

Youth's golden age, and manhood's prime,

Home, country, kindred, friends,—with

I find in this far clime.

Thrice welcome, little English flower!
I'll rear thee with a tremhling hand;
Oh, for the April sun and shower,
The sweet May-dews of that fair land,
Where daisies, thick as star-light stand
In every walk !—that here may shoot
Thy scions, and thy huds expand,
A hundred from one root.

Thrice welcome, little English flower!
To me the pledge of hope unseen;
When sorrow would my soul o'erpower
For joys that were, or might have heen,
I'll call to mind, how, fresh and green,
I saw thee waking from the dust;
Then tarn to heaven with hrow serene,
And place in God my trust.



Last smile of the departing year,
Thy sister sweets are flown 1

Thy pensive wreath is far more dear
From hlooming thus alone.

Thy tender hlush, thy simple frame,
Unnoticed might have passed;
But now thou com'st with softer claim,
The loveliest and the last.

Sweet are the charms in thee we find,—
Emhlem of hope's gay wing;
'Tis thine to call past hloom to mind,
To promise future spring.



I Will not praise the often-flattered rose,
Or virgin-like with hlushing charms half seen,
Or when in dazzling splendor like a queen,

All her magnificence of state she shows;

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