Fit symbol of imperial state, Their sceptre-seeming forms elate, But not the less, sweet spring-tide's flower, Our western valleys' humbler child, What though nor care nor art be thine, Of thy twin-leaves the embower'd screen, Thy arch'd and purple-vested stem, 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, As from creation they have grown, Who forms thee thus, with unseen hand? And will'd thee thus to be; And keeps thee still in being, through Omnipotent, to work his will; Still provident, with sleepless care, "There is no God," the senseless say :- The mourner breathes his anxious thought; By thee a better lesson taught, Sweet lily of the vale! Yes, He who made and fosters thee, Of majesty divine: Nor deems she, that his guardian care THE FLOWER-GARDEN. BY BARRY CORNWALL. THERE the Rose unveils Her breast of beauty, and each delicate bud Blue as the midnight heavens; the frail Snow-drop, The languid Hyacinth and pale Primrose, Lilacs, and flowering Limes, and scented Thorns, 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!" |