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Methought that of these visionary flowers
That the same huts, which in their natural bowers
Kept these imprison'd children of the Hours
I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come,
That I might there present it—oh! to whom?
THE DIAL OF FLOWERS.
'twas a lovely thought to mark the hours
As they floated in light away,
That laugh to the summer's day.
Thus had each moment its own rich hue,
And its graceful cup or bell,
Like a pearl in an ocean-shell.
To such sweet signs might the time have flow'd
In a golden current on,
The glorious guests were gone.
So might the days have been brightly told—
Those days of song and dreams—
By the blue Arcadian streams.
So in those isles of delight, that rest
Far off in a breezeless main,
Hath sought, but still in vain.
Yet is not life, in its real flight,
Mark'd thus—even thus—on earth,
And another's gentle birth?
Oh! let us live, so that flower by flower,
Shutting in turn, may leave
A eharm for the shaded eve.
Through the shadowy past, Like a tomb-searcher, Memory ran, Lifting each shroud that time had cast O'er buried hopes.
He is a slave to science. He would pull
'Tis midnight: on the mountain's brown
The nobly born are not the only noble,
Epitaph On A Child.
Here a pretty baby lies
Not once or twice in our rough island story
The path of duty was the way to glory.
He that walks it only thirsting
For the right, and learns to deaden
Love of self before his journey closes,
He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting
Into glossy purples, which outredden
All voluptuous garden roses.
Not once or twice in our fair island story
The path of duty was the way to glory.
He that ever following her commands,
Or with toil of heart, and knees, and hands,
Through the long gorge to the far light, has won
His path upward and prevail'd,
Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled
Are close upon the shming table lands
To which our God himself is moon anil sun.
THE MOWER'S MAIDEN.
"Good morrow to thee, Mary, right early art thou laden! Love hath not made thee slothful, thou true and steadfast
maiden! Ay, if in three brief days, methinks, thy task of work be
done, I shall no longer have the heart to part thee from my son."
It was a wealthy farmer spake, it was a maiden listened— Oh, how her loving bosom swelled, and how her full eye
glistened! N"ew life is in her limbs, her hand outdoes her comrades all; See how she wields the scythe, and see how fast the full
And when the noon grows sultry, and the weary peasants
wend To sleep in pleasant thickets and o'er cooling streams to
bend; Still are the humming-bees at work beneath that burning
sky, And Mary, diligent as they, works on unceasingly.
The sun hath sunk, the evening bell gives gentle summons
home; "Enough," her neighbours cry, "enough! come, Mary,
prithee come!" Shepherds, and flocks, and husbandmen, pass homeward
through the dew, But Mary only whets her scythe, and goes to work anew.
And now the dews are thickening, the moon and stars are
bright; Sweet are the new-mown furrows, and sweet the songs of
night; But Mary lies not down to rest, and stands not still to
hear; The rustling of her ceaseless scythe is music to her ear.
Even thus from morn till evening, even thus from eve to morn,
She toils, by strong love nourished, by happy hope upborne;
Till when the third day's sun arose, the labour was complete,
And there stood Mary weeping, for joy so strange and
"Good morrow to thee, Mary! How now ?—the task is
Lo, for such matchless industry, rich guerdon shall be won;
But for the wedding—nay, indeed—my words were only jest, |
How foolish and how credulous we find a lover's breast!"
He spake and went his way, and there the hapless maid I
stood still, Her weary limits they shook, they sank, her heart grew
stiff and chill; Speech, sense, and feeling, like a cloud, did from her spirit
pass, And there they found her lying upon the new-mown grass! j
And thus a dumb and death-like life for years the maiden l
led— A drop of fragrant honey was all her daily bread. Oh, make her grave in pleasant shades, where softest
flow'rets grow, For such a loving heart as hers is seldom found below!
A HILL-SIDE WOOD.
From Arnold, a Drama, by Craddock Newtox.
Look, what a light of flowers is on the earth,