Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

Fit symbol of imperial state,

Their sceptre-seeming forms elate,
And crowns of burnish'd gold.

But not the less, sweet spring-tide's flower,
Dost thou display the Maker's power,
His skill and handy work;

Our western valleys' humbler child,
Where, in green nook of woodland wild,
Thy modest blossoms lurk.

What though nor care nor art be thine,
The loom to ply, the thread to twine,
Yet born to bloom and fade,
Thee to a lovelier robe arrays,
Than, e'en in Israel's brightest days,
Her wealthiest kings array'd.

Of thy twin-leaves the embower'd screen,
Which wraps thee in thy shroud of green;
Thy Eden-breathing smell;

Thy arch'd and purple-vested stem,
Whence pendent many a pearly gem,
Displays a milk-white bell;

Instinct with life thy fibrous root,

Which sends from earth the ascending shoot.

As rising from the dead,

And fills thy veins with verdant juice,

Charged thy fair blossoms to produce,

And berries scarlet red;

The triple cell, the two-fold seed,
A ceaseless treasure-house decreed,
Whence aye thy race may grow,

As from creation they have grown,
While spring shall weave her flowery crown,
Or vernal breezes blow;

Who forms thee thus, with unseen hand?
Who at creation gave command,

And will'd thee thus to be;

And keeps thee still in being, through
Age after age revolving! Who
But the great God is he?

Omnipotent, to work his will;
Wise, who contrives each part to fill
The post to each assign'd;

Still provident, with sleepless care,
To keep; to make thee sweet and fair
For man's enjoyment-kind!

"There is no God," the senseless say :-
"O God! why cast'st thou us away?"
Of feeble faith and frail,

The mourner breathes his anxious thought; By thee a better lesson taught,

Sweet lily of the vale!

Yes, He who made and fosters thee,
In reason's eye perforce must be

Of majesty divine:

Nor deems she, that his guardian care
Will He in man's support forbear,
Who thus provides for thine.

THE FLOWER-GARDEN.

BY BARRY CORNWALL.

THERE the Rose unveils

Her breast of beauty, and each delicate bud
O' the season comes in turn to bloom and perish.
But first of all the Violet, with an eye

Blue as the midnight heavens; the frail Snow-drop,
Born of the breath of winter, and on his brow
Fix'd like a pale and solitary star;

The languid Hyacinth and pale Primrose,
And Daisy trodden down like modesty ;
The Foxglove, in whose drooping bells the bee
Makes her sweet music; the Narcissus, (named
From him who died for love,) the tangled Wood-
bine,

Lilacs, and flowering Limes, and scented Thorns,
And some from the voluptuous winds of June
Catch their perfumings.

THE ASPEN-TREE.

BY CHARLES SWAIN.

WHY tremblest thou, Aspen? no storm threatens nigh;

Not a cloud mars the peace of the love-beaming

sky;

'Tis the spring of thy being-no autumn is near Thy green boughs to wither, thy sweet leaves to

sear!

The sun, like a crown, o'er thy young head shines free,

Then wherefore thus troubled? what fear'st thou, fair tree?

I have watch'd through the mildest, the stillest, of hours,

When Nature slept soft on her pillow of flowers; When, though all things appear'd 'neath her in

fluence blest,

Thou alone wert disturb'd, thou alone couldst not rest!

But still, as lamenting some dreadful decree, Thou groan'dst in the calm, like an outcast, lone

tree!

A voice from its leaves seem'd to wail on mine

ear

"List, mortal; attend the dark source of my fear

Ah, learn the dread hour when we sank 'neath

rebuke,

And our boughs, as if grasp'd by a hurricane, shook!

When the morn rose in blood, when the dead wept around,

And a curse 'gainst our seed burst in woe from the ground!

The cross, amidst lightning, on Calvary stain'd, Was made from our roots; there His blood hath remain'd!

Creation, accursing, in misery spoke,

And a shudder eternal then first o'er us broke! From the serpent we're named, the last doom'd

to betray!

Oh! no rest for the aspen till earth fades away!"

« AnteriorContinuar »