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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
As genins does, and, from thy rocky tower,

Send fragrance to the purest hreath of heaven.

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How withered, perished seems the form
Of yon ohscure, unsightly root!

Yet from the hlight of wintry storm,
It hides secure the precious fruit.

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,
The IMff wrape her ailver vest.

Till vernal suns and vernal gules,
Shall kiss once more her fragrant hreast.

Yes, hide heneath the mouldering heap
The undellghting slighted thing;

There in the cold earth huried deep,
In silence let it wait the spring.

Oh! many a stormy night shall close
In gloom upon the harren earth.

While still in undisturhed repose,
Uninjured lies the future hirth;—

And Ignorance, with sceptic eye,
Hope's patient smile shall wondering view,

Or mock her fond credulity,
As her soft tears the spot hedew.

Sweet smile of Hope, delicious tear,
The sun, the shower indeed shall come,

The promised verdant shoot appear,
And nature hid her hlossom hloom.

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,
Unsullied from their darksome grave,

And thy soft petals' silvery light.
In the mild hreeee unfettered wave.

So Faith shall seek the lowly dust,
Where humhle Sorrow loves to lie,

And hid her thus her hopes entrust,
And watch with patient cheerful eye;-

Ainl hear the long cold wintry night.
And hear her own degraded doom,

And wait till heaven's reviving light,
Eternal spring, shall hurst the gloom.

THE ROSE.

wAtts.

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,
The hues that paint thy glowing vest,

Arc fading fast away,
Like the returning tints that die
At evening on the western sky,

And melt in misty grey.

It was hut now thy radiant smile;

Broke through the season's gloom,

As hending I inhaled awhile
Thy hreathing of perfume,

And traced on every silken leaf

A tale of summer, sweet and hrief,
And sudden as thy doom.

The morning sun thy petals hailed,

New from their mossy cell;
At eve his heam, in sorrow veiled,

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,
Like thee it hloomed and fell,

In momentary pity sent
Of fairer climes to tell;

So frail its form, so short its stay,

That nought the lingering heart conld say, But hail, and fare thee well!

THE MOSS-ROSE.

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

THE EVERLASTING-ROSE.

Hail to thy hues! thou lovely flower:
Still shed around thy soft perfume,

Still smile amid the wintry-hour,
And hoast, ev'n now, a spring-tide hloom.

Thine is, methinks, a pleasing dream.

Lone lingerer in the icy vale,
Of smiles that hail'd the morning heam,

And sighs more sweet for ev'ning's gale.

Still are thy green leaves whispering
Low sonnds to fancy's ear, that tell

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
Meekly contrasts thy cheerful red.

'Tis thine to hear each varying voice,
That marks the seasons sad or gay;

The summer thrush hids thee rejoice,
And wintry rohin's dearer lay.

Sweet flower! how happy dost thon seem
'Mid parching heat,'mid nipping frost:

While gathering heauty from each heam, No hue, no grace of thine is lost.

Thus Hope, 'mid life's severest days,
Still smiles, still triumphs o'er despair:

Alike she lives in Pleasure's rays,
And cold Affliction's winter air.

Charmer alike in lordly hower,
And in the hermit's cell she glows;

The Poet's and the Lover's flower,
The hosom's Everlasting Rose 1

THE MARYCOLD.

When with a serious musing I hehold
The grateful and ohsequious marygold.
How duly, every morning, she displays
Her open hreast when Phtehus spreads his

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.

THE HAREBELL.

ANON.

With drooping hells of clearest hlue
Thon didst attract my childish view,

Almost resemhling
The azure hutterflies that flew
Where on the heath thy hlossoms grew,

So lightly tremhling.

Where feathery fern, and golden hroom,
Increase the sand-rock cavern's gloom,

I've seen thee tangled,
'Mid tufts of purple heather hloom,
By vain Aracbue's treacherous loom,

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,
And silvery daisies dot the green,

Thy flowers revealing,
Perchance to soothe the fairy-queen,
Wiih faint sweet tones on night serene,

Thy soft hells pealing.

But most 1 love ihine azure hraid,
When softer flowers are all decayed,

And thoa appearest
Stealing heneath the hedgerow shade,
Like joys that linger as they fade,

Whose last are dearest.

Thoa art the flower of .memory;
The pensive soul recals in thee
The year's past pleasures;

And led hy kindred thought, will flee,
Till, hack to careless infancy,
The path she measures.

Beneath antumnal hreezes hleak,
So faintly fair, so sadly meek,

I've seen thee hending,
Pale as the pale hlue veins that streak
Consumption's thin, transparent cheek,

With death hues hlending.

Thou shalt he sorrow's love and mine;
The violet and the eglantine

With spring are hanished,
In summer's heam the roses shine,
But I of thee my wreath will twine

When these are vanished.

THE HAREBELL AND THE FOX-GLOVE.

Iis a Valley ohscure, on a hank of green shade,
A sweet little Harehell her dwelling had made;
Her roof was a woodhine, that tastefully spread
Its close-woven tendrils, o'erarching her head;
Her hed was of moss, that each morning made new;
She dined on a sunheam, and supp'd on the dew;
Her neighhour, the nightingale, sung her to rest;
And care had ne'er planted a thorn in her hreast.

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,
Cries, " Ne'er such a dowdy hlue mantle was seen!"
Nor keeps to herself any longer her pain,
Bat thus to a Primrose hegins to complain:
"I envy your raood, that can patient ahide
"The respect paid that Fox-glove, his airs and his pride:
"There you sit, still the same, with your colourless cheek;
.' But you have no spirit—would I were as meek."

The Primrose good-humour' d replied, " If you knew
"Mure ahout him—f rememher I'm older than you,
"And, hetter instructed, can tell yon his tale)—
"You'd envy him least of sil flowers in the vale:
"With sll his tist! airs snd hls dassling show,
"No hlossom more haneful and odious can hlow;
"And the reason that flow'reta hefore him give way
"Is hecanse they all hate him and shrink from his sway.

"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,
"And have numher'd his victims, as fadlug they fell;
"He hlighted twin Violets that under him lay,
"And poison'd a sister of mine the same day 1"
The Primrose was silent—The Harehell, 'tis said,
Inclined for a moment her heantiful head;
But quickly recover'd her spirits and then
Declar'd that she ne'er should feel envy again.

THE TULIP AND THE MYRTLE.

lANQhorNB.

'twas on the horder of a stream
A galty painted tulip stood,
And gilded hy the morning heam,
Survey'd her heanties in the flood.

And sure more heanties to hehold,
Might nothing meet the wistful eye,
Than crimson fading into gold
la streaks of fairest symmetry.

The heanteons flower with pride elate,
(Ah me! that pride in heanty dwells!)
Vainly affects superior state,
And thus in empty fancy swells:

"0 lustre of uurivalled hloom I
Fair printing of a hund divine,
Superior far to mortal doom,
The hues of heaven alone are mine.

"Away ye worthless, formless race,
Ye weeds that hoast the name of flowers,
No more my native hed disgrace,
Uumeet for trihes so mean as yours.

"And thou dull, sullen evergreen
That dost my shining sphere invade,
My noon-day heanties heam unseen,
Ohscure heneath thy dusky shade."

"Deluded flower," the myrtle cries,
"Shall we thy moment's hloom adore?
The meanest shruh that you despise,
The meanest flower has merit more.

"That daisy in its simple hloom,
Shall last along the changing year,
Blush on the suow of winter's gloom,
And hid the smiling spring appear.

"The violet, who those hanks heneath
Hides from thy scorn its modest head.

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