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That in these days your praises should be sung
On many harps, which he has lately strung;
And when again your dewiness he kisses,
Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses:
So haply when I rove in some far vale,
His mighty voice may come upon the gale.

Here are sweet-peas, on tiptoe for a flight:
With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white,
And taper fingers catching at all things,
To bind them all about with tiny rings.
What next? a turf of evening primroses,
O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes;
O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep,
But that 'tis ever startled by the leap
Of buds into ripe flowers.

THE JASMINE.

BY MOORE.

'Twas midnight-through the lattice wreath'd
With woodbine, many a perfume breathed
From plants that wake when others sleep;
From timid jasmine buds that keep
Their odour to themselves all day;
But when the sunlight dies away,
Let the delicious secret out
To every breeze that roams about.

TO PRIMROSES

FILLED WITH MORNING DEW.

BY HERRICK.

WHY do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears

Speak grief in you,

Who were but born

Just as the modest morn
Teem'd her refreshing dew!

Alas! ye have not known that shower

That mars a flower;

Nor felt the unkind

Breath of a blasting wind;

Nor are ye worn with years;
Or warp'd as we,

Who think it strange to see

Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young,
Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known
The reason why

Ye droop and weep.

Is it for want of sleep,
Or childish lullaby?

Or that ye have not seen as yet

The violet?

Or brought a kiss

From that sweetheart to this?

No, no; this sorrow shown

By your tears shed,

Would have this lecture read:

That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.

THE DAISY.

BY JOHN MASON GOOD.

NoT worlds on worlds, in phalanx deep,
Need we to prove that God is here;
The daisy, fresh from winter's sleep,
Tells of His hand in lines as clear.

For who but he who arch'd the skies,
And pour'd the day-spring's living floo
Wondrous alike in all He tries,

Could rear the daisy's purple bud;

Mould its green cup, its wiry stem,
Its fringed border nicely spin,
And cut the gold-embossed gem

That, set in silver, gleams within;

And fling it unrestrain'd and free,
O'er hill, and dale, and desert sod,
That man, where'er he walks, may see,
At every step, the stamp of God?

FROM METASTASIO.

The married are compared by the poet to the young Rose, which the lover places in the bosom of his mistress, first stripped of thorns.

THOU Virgin Rose! whose opening leaves so fair, The dawn has nourish'd with her balmy dews; While softest whispers of the morning air

Call'd forth the blushes of thy vermeil hues;

That cautious hand, which cropt thy youthful pride,

Transplants thy honours, where from hurt

secure,

Stript of each thorn offensive to thy side,

Thy nobler part alone shall bloom mature.

Thus thou, a flower, exempt from change of skies, By storms and torrents unassail'd shall rise, And scorn the winter colds, and summer heats; A guard more faithful then thy growth shall tend, By whom thou mayst in tranquil union blend Eternal beauties with eternal sweets.

THE LILY.

J. H. WIFFEN.

Look on that flower-the daughter of the vale, The Medicean statue of the shade!

Her limbs of modest beauty, aspect pale,
Are but by her ambrosial breath betray'd.
There, half in elegant relief display'd,
She standeth to our gaze, half-shrinking shuns;
Folding her green scarf like a bashful maid
Around, to screen her from her suitor suns,
Not all her many sweets she lavisheth at once.

Lock'd in the twilight of depending boughs,
Where night and day commingle, she doth shoot,
Where nightingales repeat their marriage vows;
First by retiring, wins our curious foot,
Then charms us by her loveliness to suit

Our contemplation to her lovely lot;

Her gloom, leaf, blossom, fragrance form dispute Which shall attract most belgards to the spot, And loveliest her array who fain would rest un sought.

Her gloom, the aisle of heavenly solitude;

Her flower, the vestal nun who there abideth; Her breath, that of celestials meekly woo'd From heaven; her leaf, the holy veil which hideth;

Her form, the shrine where purity resideth;

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