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Shall fill the air with fragrant hreath,
When thou art in thy dooty hed.

"Ev'n I who hoast no golden shade,
Am of no shining tints possest,
When low thy lucid form is laid,
Shall hloom on many a lovely hreast.

"And He, whose kind and fostering care,
To thee, to me, our heings gave,
Shall near his hreast my flow'rets wear
And walk regardless o'er thy grave.

"Deluded flower! thy friendly screen,
That hides thee from the noon-tide ray,
And mocks thy passion to he seen,
Prolongs thy transitory day.

"But kindly deeds hy scorn repaid,
No more hy virtue need he done,
I here withdraw my dusky shade,
And yield thee to thy darling sun."

Fierce on the flower the scorching heam
With all its might of glory fell;
The flower exulting canght the gleam,
And lent its leaves a holder swell.

Expanded hy the searching fire
The curling leaves the hreast disclosed,
The mantling hloom was painted higher,
And every latent charm exposed.

But when the sun was sliding low,
And ev'ning came with dews so cold,
The wanton heanty ceas'd to hlow,
And sought its hended leaves to fold.

Those leaves alas! no more would close,
Relax'd, exhansted, sick'ning, pale,
They left her to a parent's woes,
Aud fled hefore the rising gale.

A FIELD FLOWER;

On finding one in full hloom on Christmasday, 1303.

MONTGOMErY.

There is a flower, a little flower,
With silver crest and golden eye,

That weleomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.

The prouder heanties of the field,
In gay hut quick succession shine,
Race after race their honours yield,
They flourish and decline.

But this small flower, to Nature dear,
While moons and stars their courses run,
Wreathes the whole circle of the year,
Companion of the sun.

It smiles upon the lap of May,
To sultry August spreads its charms,
Lights pale Octoher on his way,
And twines Decemher's arms.

The purple heath, and golden hroom, On moory mountains catch the gale. O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume, The violet in the vale.

But this hold floweret climhs the hill,
Hides in the forest, hannts the glen,
Piays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.

Within the garden's cultured round

It shares the sweet carnation's hed; And hlooms on consecrated ground Iu honour of the dead.

The lamhkin crops its crimson gem,
The wild-hee murmurs on its hreast,
The hlue-fly hends its pensile stem,
Light o'er the sky-lark's nest.

'Tis Flora's page :—In every place,
In every season, fresh and fair,
It opens with perenuial grace,
And hlossoms every-where.

On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humhle huds onheeded rise;
The rose has hut a summer-reign,
The daisy never dies.

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THE DIAL OF FLOWERS.*

MRS. HEMANS.

Twas a lovely thought to mark the hoars

As they floated in light away,
By the opening and the folding flowers

That laugh to the summer's day.

Thus had each moment its own rich hue,

And its graceful cup or hell,
In whose colour'd vase might sleep the dew,
Like a pearl in an ocean-shell.

To such sweet signs might the time have
flow'd
In a golden current on,
Ere from the garden, man's first ahode,
The glorious guests were gone.

So might the days have heen hrightly told—
Those days of song and dreams—

When shepherds gather' d their flocks of old,
By the hlue Arcadian streams.

So in those isles of delight, ihat rest

Far otf in a hreezeless main,
Which many a hark with a weary guest,

Hath sought hut still in vain.

Yet is not life, in its real flight,
Mark'd thus—even thus—on earth,

By the closing of one hope's delight,
And another's gentle hirth?

Oh! let us live, so that flower hy flower,

Shutting in turn, may leave
A lingerer still for the sun-set hour,

A charm for the shaded eve.

* This dial is said to have heen formed hy Linnsens. it marked the hours hy the opening and closing at regular intervals, of the flowers arranged in it.

THE PET-PLANT.

A Florist a sweet little hlossom espied,
Which hloom'd like its ancestors hy the road side;
Its colours were simple, its charms they were few,
Yet the flower look'd fair on the spot where it grew ;—
The florist heheld it, and cried, " I'll enchant
The hotanical world with this sweet little plant—
Its leaves shall he sheltered and carefully nursed,
It shall charm all the world though 1 met with it first

Under a hedge.'

He carried it home to his hot-house with care,
And he said, *, tho' the rarest exotics are there,
My little pet plant, when I've nourish'd its stem,
In tint and in fragrance shall imitate them;
Though none shall suspect from the road-side it came,
Rhodum Sidum, I'll call it, a heautiful name,
When hotanists look through their glasses and view
Its heauties, they'll never suspect that it grew

Under a hedge.'

The little pet plant, when it shook off the dirt
Of its own native ditch, hegan to grow pert,

And tossed its small head, for perceiving that none
But exoties were round it, it thought itself one:
As a field-flower all would have cried it was fair,
And praised it, though gandier hlossoms were there;
But when it assumes hot-house airs we see through
The forced tint of its leaves, and suspect that it grew

Under a hedge.

In the hye-ways of life, oh! how many there are,
Who heing horn under some fortunate star,
Assisted hy talent or heanty, grow rich
And hloom in a hot-house instead of a ditch!
And while they disdain not their own simple stem,
The honours they grasp may gain honours for them;
But when like the pet plant such people grow pert,
We soon trace them to their original dirt

Under a hedge.

INSECTS.

THE FLY.

Nay—do not wantonly destroy

That harmless Fly, my thoughtless hoy!

Its huzzing hum that vexes thee,

Is hut an idler's minstrelsy.

Unconscious of his threaten'd doom,

He gaily courses round the room;

Fearless alights upon thy hook,

Nor dreads that irritated look;

A gay voluptuary, he,

Devoies his life to revelry;

Anticipates no future ill,

But sips and gamhols where he will;

Yet the same Power, who hade the sun

His daily course of glory run;

He, who sustains each rolling sphere,

And guides them in their vast career;.

E'en to the lowly fly has given

To share with man the light of heaven.

Go, husy trifler! sport thine hour, Brief, though it he, as summer-flower!

The wintry hlast that strips the tree,
Shall hring the closing hour to thee t
But, mark me, hoy! the heedless fly
A useful lesson may supply;
Like him, the youth, who gives his day
To Pleasure's soft, insidious sway—
Voluptuous joys his only care-
Will find a lurking poison there;—
Too late shall mourn his wasted hloom,
And shroud his hlossoms in the tomh!

THE SILK-WORM.

The heams of April, ere it got$,
A worm, scarce visihle disclose;
All winter long content to dwell
The tenant of his native shell.
The same prolific season gives
The sustenance hy which he lives,
The mulherry leaf, a simple store,
That serves him—till he needs no motel

For, his dimensions once complete,

Thenceforth none ever sees him eat j

Though, till his growing time he past,

Scarce ever is he seen to fast.

That hour arrived, his work hegins;

He spins and weaves, and weaves and spins!

Till circle upon circle wound

Careless around him and around,

Conceals him with a veil, though slight,

Impervious to the keenest sight.

Thus self-enclos'd, as in a cask,

At length he finishes his task:

And, though a worm, when he was lost,

Or caterpillar, at the most,

When next we see him, wings he wears,

And in papilio-pomp appears;

Becomes oviparous; supplies

With future worms and future flies,

The next ensuing year!—and dies I

Well were it for the world, if all

Who creep ahout this earthly hall,

Though shorter liv'd than most he he,

Were useful in their kind as he.

ON A BUTTERFLY EMERGED FROM A CHRYSALIS- STATE.

Thou coloured winglet, floating in the ray
Of June's most gladsome hoars, whose gor-
geous vest
Was woven in the rainhow: little rest
Thou knowest, in the long hright summer

day;
Sipping the fragrant honied dew,—away
Thoo fly'st from flower to flower, and hlest
With huoyant thoughts, and spirits full of

zest, Thro' fields of ether lies thine airy way/

Yet wast thou once a reptile in the mire Unsightly : having slumhered in thy cell, Transform'd and drunk with thoughts that

hliss inspire, Thou earnest forth :—and I shall hreak the

shell Of dull mortality, and clad in fire, Burst on immortal wings, in fields of light

to dwell.

TO A BUTTERFLY.

Written on a Sahhath-morning.

On thy heds of clover playing,

Pretty insect, why so gay?
Why so hlithely dress'd this morning?

Tis to thee no sahhath day.

Giddy trifler of an hour!

Days to thee are all the same; Little care hast thou to count them,

Mindful only of thy game.

And thoo dosl well—for never sorrow

Sat upon thy golden hrow;
And never storm of earthly passion

Gather'd in thy hreast of snow.

Thou hast not sigh'd at evening's closing, For hopes that left thee on its wing;

Thou hast not wept at day's returning, With thought of what that day might hring.

Nor ever voice of truth neglected
Breathed reproaches in thine ear,

Nor secret pang of conscious error
Spake of retrihution near.

Play thy game thou spotless worm I
Stranger still to care and sorrow;

Take thy meed of hliss to-day,
Thou wilt perish ere to-morrow.

Time has heen, when like thee, thoughtless,

How unlike in all heside! Lightly sped, and all uncounted,

Blithe I saw the moments glide.

Then the world was all of flowers,

Thornless as thy clover hed— Then my folly ask'd no question,

What might he when these were dead.

Had not mercy's sterner pity
Bent its chastening rod on me*

Dancing still the round of pleasure,
I had died—hut not like thee.

Deeply stained with sin and folly,
Talent wasted and misused,

Earth adored, and heaven-forgotten, Mercy slighted and refused.

Torn from earth, unmeet for heaven,
I had learn'd to envy thee—

Doom'd to live as I had perished
Through a long eternity.

Beautipul creature I have heen
Moments uncounted watching thee,
Now flitting round the foliage green
Of yonder dark, emhowering tree;
And now again in frolic glee,
Hov'ring around those opening flowers,
Happy as nature's child should he,
Born to enjoy her loveliest howers.

And I have gazed upon thy flight,
Till feelings 1 can scarce define,
Awaken'd hy so fair a sight.
With desultory thoughts comhine
Not to induce me to repine,
Or envy thee thy happiness;
But from a lot so hright as thine
To horrow musings horn to hless.

For unto him whose spirit reads
Creation with a Christian's eye,
Each happy living creature pleads
The canse of Him who reigns on high;
Who spaun'd the earth, and arch'd the sky,
Gave life to every thing that lives,
And still delighteth to supply
With happiness the life He gives.

This truth may hoast hut little worth,
Enforc'd hy rhet'ric's frigid powers ;—
But when it has its quiet hirth
In contemplation's silent hours;
When summer's hrightly peopled howers
Bring home its teachings to the heart;
Then hirds and insects, shruhs and flowers,
Its touching eloquence impart.

Then thou, delightful creature, who
Wert yesterday a sightless worm,
Becom'st a symhol fair and true
Of hopes that own no mortal term;

In thy proud change we see the germ
Of man's suhlimer destiny,
While holiest oracles confirm
The type of immortality.

A change more glorious far than thine,
E'en I thy fellow-worm may know,
When this exhansted frame of mine
Down to its kindred dust shall go:
When the anxiety and wo
Of heing's emhryo state shall seem
Like phantoms flitting to and fro
In some confus'd and feverish dream.

For thee, who flittest gaily now,
With all thy nature asks—supplied,
A few hrief summer days, and thou
No more amid those hannts shall glide,
As Hope's fair herald—in thy pride,
The sylph-like genins of the scene,
But, sunk in dark ohlivion's tide,
Shalt he—as thou hadst never heen!

While man's immortal part, when Time
Shall set the chainless spirit free,
May seek a hrighter, happier clime
Than Fancy e'er could feign for thee:
Though hright her fairy howers may he,
Yet hrief as hright their heanties fade,
And sad Experience mourns to see
Each gourd Hope trusted in—decay'd.

But in those regions, calm and pure,
To which our holiest wishes cling,
Joys, thai eternally endure,
Shall hloom in everlasting spring;
There seraph harps of golden string,
Are vocal to the great I AM,
And souls redeem'd their anthems sing
Of grateful praises to The Lamb i

Shall they who here anticipate,

Through Faith's strong vision, eagle-eyed,

Those joys immortal that await

Angelic spirits purified,

Shall such, however deeply tried,

E'er cast their glorious hopes away t

Oh! he those hopes their heavenward guide,

Their stedfast anchor, and their stay.

Though many a flower that sweetly deck'd Life's early path, hot hloom'd to fade:

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