I SAW A BROKEN FLOWER. BY LUCY HOOPER. I SAW a broken flower, I once had loved to rear, But time went by, and summer's rain I heard a gentle tone, Of music low and soft, But night drew on and the strain was gone, I linger'd long and oft, The thrill of the harp was done; Yet mourn'd I not in bitterness, I gazed upon a star, It led Night's host, it shone the most, Away, away and far, From the blue Heavens, so soft and clear, But when again night chill'd the air, But darker hours drew on, I heard the voice I loved grow low, The eye flash'd bright, with a clearer light, How could death mock us so ? That cherish'd one is gone; Not like the flower, the star, the strain, TO A LADY. WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL. BY SCOTT. TAKE these flowers, which, purple waving, Warriors from the breach of danger Pluck no longer laurels there: They but yield the passing stranger Wild-flower wreaths for beauty's hair. TO THE IVY. BY MRS. HEMANS. OH! how could Fancy crown with thee, Companion of the vine? Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound The Roman, on his battle-plains, Yet there, though fresh in glossy green Where sleep the sons of ages flown, The bards and heroes of the pastWhere, through the halls of glory gone, Murmurs the wintry blast; Where years are hastening to efface Each record of the grand and fair, Thou in thy solitary grace, Wreath of the tomb! art there. Thou, o'er the shrines of fallen gods, On classic plains dost mantling spread, And veil the desolate abodes, And cities of the dead. Deserted palaces of kings, Arches of triumph, long o'erthrown, On! many a temple, once sublime, And, rear'd 'midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine High from the fields of air look down Hath pass'd, and left no trace. But thou art there-thy foliage bright The breathing forms of Parian stone, That rise round grandeur's marble halls, The vivid hues by painting thrown Rich o'er the glowing walls; Th' Acanthus, on Corinthian fanes, 'Tis still the same-where'er we tread. The wrecks of human power we see, The marvels of all ages fled, Left to decay and thee! And still let man his fabrics rear, August in beauty, grace. and strength, Days pass-Thou, "Ivy never sere,' And all is thire at length! |