FLOWERS.

I WILL not have the maid Clytie
Whose head is turn'd by the sun;
The tulip is a courtly quean,
Whom, therefore, I will shun;
The cowslip is a country wench,
The violet is a nun ;—

But I will woo the dainty rose,
The queen of every one.

The pea is but a wanton witch,
In too much haste to wed,

And clasps her rings on every hand;
The wolfsbane I should dread;
Nor will I dreary rosemarye,
That always mourns the dead;-
But I will woo the dainty rose,

With her cheeks of tender red.

The lily is all in white, like a saint,

And so is no mate for me

And the daisy's cheek is tipp'd with a blush, She is of such low degree;

Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves,

And the broom's betroth'd to the bee ;

But I will plight with the dainty rose,
For fairest of all is she.

BALLAD.

SHE'S up and gone,

the graceless girl,

And robb'd my failing years!

My blood before was thin and cold,

But now 'tis turn'd to tears ;-

BALLAD.

My shadow falls upon my grave,
So near the brink I stand,

She might have stay'd a little yet,
And led me by the hand!

Aye, call her on the barren moor,
And call her on the hill:
'Tis nothing but the heron's cry,
And plover's answer shrill;
My child is flown on wilder wings
Than they have ever spread,
And I may even walk a waste
That widen'd when she fled.

Full many a thankless child has been,
But never one like mine;

Her meat was served on plates of gold,
Her drink was rosy wine;

But now she'll share the robin's food,
And sup the common rill,
Before her feet will turn again
To meet her father's will!

221

ALAS! That breathing Vanity should go
Where Pride is buried,-like its very ghost,

Uprisen from the naked bones below,

In novel flesh, clad in the silent boast
Of gaudy silk that flutters to and fro,
Shedding its chilling superstition most
On young and ignorant natures-as it wont
To haunt the peaceful churchyard of Bedfont!

Each Sabbath morning, at the hour of

prayer,

Behold two maidens, up the quiet green

Shining far distant, in the summer air

That flaunts their dewy robes and breathes between Their downy plumes,-sailing as if they were Two far-off ships,-until they brush between

The churchyard's humble walls, and watch and wait On either side of the wide open'd gate.

And there they stand--with haughty necks before God's holy house, that points towards the skies-Frowning reluctant duty from the poor,

And tempting homage from unthoughtful eyes:

And Youth looks lingering from the temple door,
Breathing its wishes in unfruitful sighs,
With pouting lips,-forgetful of the grace,

Of health, and smiles, on the heart-conscious face ;

Because that Wealth, which has no bliss beside,

May wear the happiness of rich attire ;

And those two sisters, in their silly pride,

May change the soul's warm glances for the fire Of lifeless diamonds;-and for health denied,— With art, that blushes at itself, inspire Their languid cheeks-and flourish in a glory That has no life in life, nor after-story.

The aged priest goes shaking his grey hair
In meekest censuring, and turns his eye
Earthward in grief, and heavenward in pray'r,
And sighs, and clasps his hands, and passes by,
Good-hearted man! what sullen soul would wear
Thy sorrow for a garb, and constantly

Put on thy censure, that might win the praise
Of one so grey in goodness and in days?

Also the solemn clerk partakes the shame
Of this ungodly shine of human pride,
And sadly blends his reverence and blame
In one grave bow, and passes with a stride
Impatient-many a red-hooded dame

Turns her pain'd head, but not her glance, aside

From wanton dress, and marvels o'er again,
That heaven hath no wet judgments for the vain.

"I have a lily in the bloom at home,'

Quoth one, "and by the blessed Sabbath day I'll pluck my lily in its pride, and come

And read a lesson upon vain array ;—

And when stiff silks are rustling up, and some

Give place, I'll shake it in proud eyes and say Making my reverence,—' Ladies, an you please King Solomon's not half so fine as these.''

Then her meek partner, who has nearly run

His earthly course,

Nay, Goody, let your text

Grow in the garden.-We have only one—

Who knows that these dim eyes may see the next? Summer will come again, and summer sun,

And lilies too,-but I were sorely vext

To mar my garden, and cut short the blow
Of the last lily I may live to grow.”

"The last!" quoth she, “and though the last it were— Lo! those two wantons, where they stand so proud

With waving plumes, and jewels in their hair,

And painted cheeks, like Dagons to be bow'd
And curtsey'd to !—last Sabbath after pray'r,
I heard the little Tomkins ask aloud

If they were angels-but I made him know
God's bright ones better, with a bitter blow!'

So speaking, they pursue the pebbly walk
That leads to the white porch the Sunday throng,
Hand-coupled urchins in restrainëd talk,

And anxious pedagogue that chastens wrong,
And posied churchwarden with solemn stalk,
And gold-bedizen'd beadle flames along,
And gentle peasant clad in buff and green,
Like a meek cowslip in the spring serene;

And blushing maiden-modestly array'd

In spotless white,—still conscious of the glass;
And she, the lonely widow, that hath made
A sable covenant with grief,-alas!