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BY MISS LANDON.
FLEETING and falling,
Where is the bloom
It is sunk in the tomb.
Its tomb wheresoever
The wind may have borne The leaves and the blossoms
Its roughnegs has torn.
Some there are floating
On yon fountain's breast, Some line the moss
Of the nightingale's nest,
Some are just strewn
O’er the green grass below, And there they lie stainless
As winter's first snow.
Yesterday, on the boughs
They hung scented and fair ; To-day they are scatter'd
The breeze best knows where.
To-morrow those leaves
Will be scentless and dead,
And the careless to tread.
And is it not thus
With each hope of the heart?
Thus will they depart:
They'll go forth to the world
On the wings of the air,
But what will be there ?
False lights to deceive,
False friends to delude,
Left only to brood.
Over feelings crush'd, chill'd,
Sweet hopes ever flown;
And blossoms are gone.
BY JAMES G. PERCIVAL.
I had found out a sweet green spot Where a lily was blooming fair ;
The din of the city disturb'd it not;
But the spirit that shades the quiet cot With its wings of love was there.
I found that lily's bloom
It smiled like a star in a misty gloom,
And it sent abroad a sweet perfume, Which is floating around me still.
I sat by the lily's bell,
The leaves, that rose in a flowing swell,
Grew faint and dim, then droop'd and fell, And the flower had flown away.
I look'd where the leaves were laid, In withering paleness, by;
And as gloomy thoughts stole on me, said,
There's many a sweet and blooming maid Who will soon as dimly die.
BY G. WITHERS.
When with a serious musing, I behold
Oh! keep the morning of his incarnation,
BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
The stream with languid murmur creeps
In Lumin's flow'ry vale: Beneath the dew the lily weeps,
Slow waving to the gale.
“ Cease, restless gale!" it seems to say
"Nor wake me with thy sighing! The honours of my vernal day
On rapid wings are flying.
“ To-morrow shall the traveller come
Who late beheld me blooming ; His searching eye shall vainly roam
The dreary vale a: Lumin."