That in these days your praises should be sung Here are sweet-peas, on tiptoe for a flight: THE JASMINE. BY MOORE. 'Twas midnight-through the lattice wreath'd 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 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; Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known Ye droop and weep. Is it for want of sleep, 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, For who but he who arch'd the skies, Could rear the daisy's purple bud; Mould its green cup, its wiry stem, That, set in silver, gleams within; And fling it unrestrain'd and free, 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, Lock'd in the twilight of depending boughs, 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; |