But thou art emblem of the friend, Who, whatsoe'er our lot, The balm of faithful love will lend THE HALF-BLOWN ROSE. BY DANIEL. Look, now, now we esteem the half-blown rose, The image of thy blush and summer's honour; Whilst yet her tender bud doth undisclose That full of beauty time bestows upon her. No sooner spreads her glories to the air, But straight her wide-blown pomp comes to decline; She then is scorn'd that late adorn'd the fair; Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now; Swift, speedy time, feather'd with flying hours, Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow: Then do not thou such treasure waste in vain, But love now whilst thou mayst be loved again. TO THE DAISY. BY WORDSWORTH. IN youth from rock to rock I went Most pleased when most uneasy; Thee winter in the garland wears Spring parts the clouds with softest airs; Whole summer-fields are thine by right; Be violets in their secret mews The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose; Proud be the rose, with rains and dews Her head impearling; Thou livest with less ambitious aim, If to a rock from rains we fly, And wearily at length should fare; A hundred times, by rock or bower, Some steady love; some brief delight; If stately passions in me burn, And one chance look to thee should turn, I drink out of an humble urn A lowlier pleasure; The homely sympathy that heeds The common life, our nature breeds; A wisdom fitted to the needs Of hearts at leisure. Fresh smitten by thy morning ray, And when, at dusk, by dews opprest, And all day long I number yet, To thee am owing; An instinct call it, a blind sense A happy, genial influence, Coming one knows not how, nor whence, Nor whither going. Child of the year! that round dost run Thy pleasant course,-when day's begun, As ready to salute the sun As lark or leveret, Thy long-lost praise* thou shalt regain; Nor be less dear to future men Than in old time;-thou not in vain Art nature's favourite. See, in Chaucer and the elder poets, the honours formerly paid to this flower. LOVE'S WREATH. BY MOORE. WHEN Love was a child, and went idling round Q'erhead from the trees hung a garland fair, 'Twas Pleasure that hung the bright flowers ur there, Love knew it and jump'd at the wreath. But Love did not know-and at his weak years, That sorrow had made of her own salt tears, He caught at the wreath, but with too much haste, As boys when impatient will do ; it fell in those waters of briny taste, And the flowers were all wet through. Yet this is the wreath he wears night and day; And though it all sunny appears With Pleasure's own lustre, each leaf, they say, Still tastes of the fountain of tears. |