Then as I climb'd the mountains o'er,
I lived my wooing days once more:
And fancy sketch'd my married lot,
My wife, my children, and my cot!

I saw the village steeple rise,-
My soul sprang, sparkling, in my eyes;
The rural bells rang sweet and clear,—
My fond heart listen'd in mine ear.

I reach'd the hamlet :-all was gay;
I love a rustic holiday!

I met a wedding,-stepp'd aside;

It pass'd;-my HANNAH was the bride!

There is a grief that cannot feel;

It leaves a wound that will not heal;

-My heart grew cold,—it felt not then;
When shall it cease to feel again?

1

A FIELD FLOWER

ON FINDING ONE IN FULL BLOOM, ON CHRISTMAS DAY, 1803.

THERE is a flower, a little flower,

With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour,

And weathers every sky.

The prouder beauties of the field
In gay but 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 October on his way,
And twines December's arms.

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

But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.

Within the garden's cultured round It shares the sweet carnation's bed; And blooms on consecrated ground In honour of the dead.

The lambkin crops its crimson gem,
The wild-bee murmurs on its breast,

The blue-fly bends 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 perennial grace,

And blossoms every where.

On waste and woodland, rock and plain, Its humble buds unheeded rise;

The Rose has but a summer-reign,

The DAISY never dies.

G 2

THE SNOW-DROP.

WINTER, retire!

Thy reign is past;

Hoary Sire!

Yield the sceptre of thy sway,

Sound thy trumpet in the blast,

And call thy storms away;
Winter, retire!

Wherefore do thy wheels delay?

Mount the chariot of thine ire,

And quit the realms of day;

On thy state

Whirlwinds wait;

And blood-shot meteors lend thee light;