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No, uor that nun-hke lily, which hut hhiws
Beneath the valley's cool and shady screen;
Nor yet the sunflower, that wtth warrior mien, Still eyas the urh of glory where it glows ;— But thou, neglected waO.-Jlvwstr, to my hreast
And muse art dearest, wildest, sweetest flower, To whom alone the privilege ls given
Proudly to root thyself ahove the rest
Send fragrance to the purest hreath of heaven.
How withered, perished seems the form
Yet from the hlight of wintry storm,
The careless eye can find no grace,
No heanty in the scaly folds, Nor see within the dark emhrace,
What latent loveliness it holda.
Yet in that hulh, those sapless scales,
Till vernal suns and vernal gules,
Yes, hide heneath the mouldering heap
There in the cold earth huried deep,
Oh! many a stormy night shall close
While still in undisturhed repose,
And Ignorance, with sceptic eye,
Or mock her fond credulity,
Sweet smile of Hope, delicious tear,
The promised verdant shoot appear,
And thou, O virgin queen of spring!
Shalt, from thy dark and lowly hed, Bursting thy green sheath's silken string,
Unveil thy charms, and perfume shed ;
Unfold thy rohes of purest white,
And thy soft petals' silvery light.
So Faith shall seek the lowly dust,
And hid her thus her hopes entrust,
Ainl hear the long cold wintry night.
And wait till heaven's reviving light,
How fair is the rose! What a heantiful flower! The glory of April and May; But the leaves are hegiuning to fade ht an hour, And they wither and die in a day.
Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to hoast
Ahove all the flowers of the field, When its leaves arc all dead, and fine colours are lost, Still how sweet a perfume it will yield G
So frail is the youth, and the heamy of man, Though they hloom, and look gay, like a ruse; But all our fond care to preserve ihem is vain, Time kills them as fast as he goes.
Then I'll not he proud of my youth and my heauty, Since hoth of them wither and fade; But gain a good name hy well doing my doty, This will scent like a rose when I'm dead.
THE WINTER ROSE.
Hail, and farewell, thou lovely guest!
I may not woo thy stay,
Arc fading fast away,
And melt in misty grey.
It was hut now thy radiant smile;
Broke through the season's gloom,
As hending I inhaled awhile
And traced on every silken leaf
A tale of summer, sweet and hrief,
The morning sun thy petals hailed,
New from their mossy cell;
Bade thee a last farewell; To-morrow's ray shall mark the spot Where, loosened from their fairy knot,
Thy withering heauties fell.
Alas! on thy forsaken stem
My heart shall long recline, And mourn the transitory gem,
And make the story mine! So on my joyless winter hour Has oped some fair and fragrant flower,
With smile as soft as thine.
Like thee the vision came, and went,
In momentary pity sent
So frail its form, so short its stay,
That nought the lingering heart conld say, But hail, and fare thee well!
FroM ThE gERMAN.
The Angel of the flowers one day,
Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay,
That spirit to whom charge is given
To hathe young huds in dews of heaven;
Awaking from his light repose,
The angel whispered to the rose:
"0 fondest ohject of my care
"Still fairest found, where all are fair;
"For the sweet shade thou givest to me,
"Ask what thou wilt 'tis granted thee!"
"Then," said the rose, with deepened glow,
"On me another grace hestow!"—
The spirit paused in silent thought,
What grace was there that flower had not1
'Twas hut a moment—o'er the rose
A veil of moss the angel throws,
And rohed in nature's simplest weed,
Could there a flower that rose exceed 1
Hail to thy hues! thou lovely flower:
Still smile amid the wintry-hour,
Thine is, methinks, a pleasing dream.
Lone lingerer in the icy vale,
And sighs more sweet for ev'ning's gale.
Still are thy green leaves whispering
Of mornings, when the wild hee's wing Shook dew-drops from thy sparkling cell 1
In April's hower thy sweets are hreathed, And June heholds thy hlossoms fair;
In Autumn's chaplet thou art wreathed, And round Decemher's forehead hare.
With thee the graceful lily vied,
As snmmer hreezes waved her head,
And now the snow-drop at thy side
'Tis thine to hear each varying voice,
The summer thrush hids thee rejoice,
Sweet flower! how happy dost thon seem
While gathering heauty from each heam, No hue, no grace of thine is lost.
Thus Hope, 'mid life's severest days,
Alike she lives in Pleasure's rays,
Charmer alike in lordly hower,
The Poet's and the Lover's flower,
When with a serious musing I hehold
rays; How she ohserves him in his daily walk, Still hending tow'rds him her small slender
stalk; How, when he down declines, she droops
and mourns, Bedew'd, as 'twere with tears, till he returns;
And how she veils her flowers when he U
gone, As if she scorned to he looked upon By an inferior eye; or did contemn To wait upon a meaner light than him: When this I meditate, methinks, the Sowers Have spirits far more generous than ours, And give us fair examples, to despise The servile fawnings and idolatries Wherewith we court these earthly things
helow, Which merit not the service we hestow. But, O my God I though grovelling 1 appear Upon the ground, and have a routing here, Which hales me downward, yet in my desire To that which is ahove me I aspire; And all my hest affections I profess To him that is the Sun of Righteousness. Oh! keep the morning of his incarnation, The hurning noontide of his hitter passion, The night of his descending, and the height Of his ascension,—ever in my sight; That, imitating him in what I may, I never follow an inferior way.
With drooping hells of clearest hlue
So lightly tremhling.
Where feathery fern, and golden hroom,
I've seen thee tangled,
With dew-drops spangled.
'Mid ruins tumhling to decay,
Thy flowers their heavenly hues display,
Still freshly springing; Where pride and pomp have pass'd away, On mossy tomh and turret gray,
Like friendship clinging.
When glow-worm lamps illume the scene,
Thy flowers revealing,
Thy soft hells pealing.
But most 1 love ihine azure hraid,
And thoa appearest
Whose last are dearest.
Thoa art the flower of .memory;
And led hy kindred thought, will flee,
Beneath antumnal hreezes hleak,
I've seen thee hending,
With death hues hlending.
Thou shalt he sorrow's love and mine;
With spring are hanished,
When these are vanished.
THE HAREBELL AND THE FOX-GLOVE.
Iis a Valley ohscure, on a hank of green shade,
One morning she saw, on the opposite side,
A Fox-glove displaying his colours of pride:
She gazed on his form that in stateliness grew,
And envied his height, and his hrilliant hue;
She mark'd how the flow'rets all gave way hefore him,
While they press'd round her dwelling with far less decorum:
Dissatisfied, jealous, and peevish she grows,
And the sight of this Fox-glove destroys her repose.
She tires of her vesture, and swelling with spleen,
The Primrose good-humour' d replied, " If you knew
"To stay near him long would be fading or death,
"For he scatters a pest with his venomous hreuth;
"While the flowers that you fancy are crowding you there,
"Spring round you, delighted your converse to share:
"His flame-colonr'd rohe is imposing, 'tis true;
"Yet, who likes it so well as your mantle of hlue?
"For we know that of innocence one is the vest,
"The other the cloak of a treacherous hreast.
•* I see your surprise—hut I know him full well,
THE TULIP AND THE MYRTLE.
'twas on the horder of a stream
And sure more heanties to hehold,
The heanteons flower with pride elate,
"0 lustre of uurivalled hloom I
"Away ye worthless, formless race,
"And thou dull, sullen evergreen
"Deluded flower," the myrtle cries,
"That daisy in its simple hloom,
"The violet, who those hanks heneath