I SAW A BROKEN FLOWER.

BY LUCY HOOPER.

I SAW a broken flower,

I once had loved to rear,
The bitter blight of an autumn night
Wither'd the plant so dear-
It faded in an hour:

But time went by, and summer's rain
Fell on the plant, it bloom'd again,
My tears were dried, my heart was light
My flower was beautiful and bright!

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,
For soon a dearer strain, to bless
My weary hours, came gently by
And melted softly—mournfully.

I gazed upon a star,
Bright in the evening sky,

It led Night's host, it shone the most,
Then melted and pass'd by,

Away, away and far,

From the blue Heavens, so soft and clear,
The calm untroubled atmosphere,

But when again night chill'd the air,
I look'd above, the star was there!

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,
Ever to bloom or come again!

TO A LADY.

WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL.

BY SCOTT.

TAKE these flowers, which, purple waving,
On the ruin'd rampart grew,
Where, the sons of freedom braving,
Rome's imperial standards flew.

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,
In ancient days, the god of wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be

Companion of the vine?

Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound
Of revelry hath long been o'er,
Where song's full notes once peal'd around,
But now are heard no more.

The Roman, on his battle-plains,
Where kings before his eagles bent,
Entwined thee, with exulting strains,
Around the victor's tent;

Yet there, though fresh in glossy green
Triumphally thy boughs might wave,
Better thou lovest the silent scene,
Around the victor's grave.

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,
And all once glorious earthly things,
At length are thine alone.

On! many a temple, once sublime,
Beneath the blue Italian sky,
Hath nought of beauty left by time,
Save thy wild tapestry:

And, rear'd 'midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine
To wave where banners waved of yore,
O'er mouldering towers, by lovely Rhine,
Cresting the rocky shore.

High from the fields of air look down
Those eyries of a vanish'd race,
Homes of the mighty, whose renown

Hath pass'd, and left no trace.

But thou art there-thy foliage bright
Unchanged the mountain storm can brave;
Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height,
And deck the humblest grave.

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,
In sculptured beauty waving fair;
These perish all-and what remains?
Thou, thou alone art there!

'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!