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SONNET.

0 God! have mercy in this dreadful hour
On the poor mariner! in comfort here
Safe sheltered as I am, I almost fear
The blast that rages with resistless power. What were it now to toss upon the waves,
The maddened waves, and know no succour near
The howling of the storm alone to hear,

And the wild sea that to the tempest raves;To gaze amid the horrors of the night,
And only see the billows' gleaming light;And in the dread of death to think of her,
Who, as she listens, sleepless, to the gale,
Puts up a silent prayer and waxes pale!
0 God! have mercy on the mariner!

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But now, leaving the stern and melancholy features of March, let us go abroad upon a day such as the poet has described below:

March in his wakening strength! The west wind, load,

Rising in vigorous and sonorous play,

At once has hurried from the heavens away

Their slumbrous guests of shadow and of cloud.

The earth smiles greenly, as if glad and proud

To feel the sunlight, faintly though it fall.

But what a rich transparency o'er all I

Sky, air, and rushing waters, are endowed

With a surpassing brightness, clear and blue.

Flushed are the far woods, and a violet hue

Tinges the far horizon. 'Tis a day

That breathes its vigour through heart, soul, and frame;

Cares, like the clouds, and pains are chased away.

Oh! for a life where each day was the same!

The influence of the day is upon us, and with hearts joyous as those of little children, let us gather a handful of daisies,

Those pearled Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets;

and first one well preserved from old Chaucer:

The Daisie, a flowre white and rede,
And in French called La bel Marguerete,
0 commendable flowre and most in minde.

Above all flowres in the mede,

Than love I most those flowres white and rede,

Such that they callen Daisies in our town.

And now, dewy and fresh from the hand of a young poet:

THE DAISY.

A gold and silver cup

Upon a pillar green.
Earth holds her Daisy up

To catch the sunshine in:—
A dial chaste, set there

To show each radiant hour:—
A field-astronomer;

A sun-observing flower.

The children with delight

To meet the Daisy run;
They love to see how bright

She shines upon the sun:
Like lowly white-crowned queen,

Demurely doth she bend,
And stands, with quiet mien,

The little children's friend.

Out in the field she's seen,

A simple rustic maid,
In comely gown of green,

And clean white frill arrayed;
There stands, like one in mood

Of hope by fancy spun,
Awaiting to be woo'd,,

Awaiting to be won.

The dandy Butterfly,

All exquisitely drest,
Before the Daisy's eye

Displays his velvet vest:
In vain is he arrayed

In all that gaudy show;
What business hath a maid

With such a foppish beau 1

THE DAISY. 99

The vagrant Bee but sings

For what he gets thereby;
Nor comes, except he brings

His pocket on his thigh;
Then let him start aside

And woo some wealthier flower;
The Daisy's not his bride,

She hath no honey-dower.

The Gnat, old back-bent fellow,

In frugal frieze coat drest,
Seeks on her carpet yellow

His tottering limbs to rest;
He woos her with eyes dim,

Voice thin, and aspect sage;
What careth she for him?

What part hath youth with age?

She lifteth up her cup,

She gazeth on the sky;
Content, so looking up,

Whether to live or die;
Content, in wind and cold

To stand, in shine and shower;
A white-rayed marigold,

A golden-bosomed flower.

It is a pleasant croft

Where "winged kine " may graze;
A golden meadow soft,

Quadrille-ground for young fays;
A little yellow plot,

With clean white pales fenced round,
Each tipt with vermeil spot, Each set on greenest ground. Henry Sutton.

Nor must we omit two others which may justly be termed perennial.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,

ON TURNINQ ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786.

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thou's met me in an evU hour;
For I maun crush among the stoure

Thy slender stem;
To spare thee now is past my pow'r,

Thou bonnie gem.

H2

4557361'

Alas 1 its no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet!
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,

Wi' speckled breast,
When upward-springing, blythe, to greet

The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble, birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth

Amid the storm,
Scarce reared above the parent earth

Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield;
But thou beneath the random bield

0' clod or stane, Adorns the lintie stibble field,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread;
Thou lifts thy unassuming head

In humble guise;
But now the share up-tears thy bed

And low thou lies I

Ev*n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine—no distant date;
Stern Ruin's plough-share drives elate,

Full on thy bloom;
Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight

Shall be thy doom. Burns.

TO A DAISY.

There is a flower, a little flower,
With silver crest and golden eye
That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.

The prouder beauties of the field
In gay but quick succession shine,
Race after race their honours yield
They flourish and decline.

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