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Wait, boastful man! Though worthy are
Thy deeds when thou art true,
Our sister yet will do;
On every peopled shore,
He honours her the more.
Oh, not for wealth, or fame, or power,
Hath man's meek angel striven,
To make of earth a heaven!
Heaven's brightest rose shall bloom;
Her advent yet to come!
BRITISH SUBJUGATION OF INDIA.
A £ne passage in one of Thomas Campbell's poems. It reads very like a prophecy.
When Europe sought your subject realms to gain,
Rich in the gems of India's gaudy zone,
Could lock with impious hands their teeming store,
But hark! as bow'd to earth the Bramin kneels,
"Foes of mankind!" her guardian spirits say,
"Wide waves his flickering sword, his bright arms glow
"To pour redress on India's injured realm,
"Do not pluck the flowers, they are sacred to the dead."
An inscription similar to the foregoing, is seen in many parts of the Roman Catholic burial ground, Botanic Gardens, Cork.
Oh, spare the flowers, the fair young flowers,
The free glad gift the summer brings;
Here do they rise, earth's offerings.
Green be the bough that o'er you waves,
Unblenching dwellers 'midst the graves!
Oh! spare the flowers! their sweet perfume,
Upon the wandering zephyr cast,
Is like the memory of the past.
Lie the dark dust and creeping worm,
They smile, like rainbows through the storm.
Pluck not the flowers—the sacred flowers!
Go where the garden's treasures spread,
And spicy trees their odours shed.
To shorten life so brief as theirs,
A blessing on the_hand that spares!
Pluck not the flowers! In days gone by
A beautiful belief was felt,
Amidst the trembling blossoms dwelt.
Holier than any that are ours,
Enshrined amidst the gentle flowers.
Hast thou no loved one lying low,
No broken reed of earthly trust? Hast thou not felt the bitter woe
With which we render dust to dust? Thou hast! and in one cherish'd spot,
Unseen, unknown to earthly eyes, Within their heart, the unforgot
Entombed in silent beauty lies.
Memory, and faith, and love so deep,
No earthly storm can reach it more— Affection that hath ceased to weep,
These flourish in thy bosom's core. Spare then the flowers! With gentle tread
Draw near, remembering what thou art, For blossoms sacred to the dead,
Are ever springing in thy heart.
LOVE OF NATURE.
By N. P. Willis.
These is a gentler element, and man
May breathe it with a calm unruffled soul,
And drink its living waters till the heart
Is pure.—And this is human happiness!
Its secret and its evidence are writ
In the broad book of nature. 'Tis to have
Attentive and believing faculties;
To go abroad rejoicing in the joy
Of beautiful and well created things;
To love the voice of waters, and the sheen
Of silver fountains leaping to the sea;
To thrill with the rich melody of birds
Living their life of music; to be glad
In the gay sunshine, reverent in the storm;
To see a beauty in the stirring leaf
And find calm thoughts beneath the whispering tree;
To see, and hear, and breathe the evidence
Of God's deep wisdom in the natural world!
BOOKS AND FLOWERS.
Comf,, let us make a sunny world around thee
Of thought and beauty! Here are books and flowers,
With spells to loose the fetter which hath bound thee—
The soul of song is in these deathless pages,
Here the crown'd spirits of departed ages
Listen, oh, listen! let their high words cheer thee!
Their swan-like music ringing through all woes; Let my voice bring their holy influence near thee—
The Elysian air of their divine repose!
Or, would'st thou turn to earth? Not earth all furrow'd
But the green peaceful world, that never sorrow'd,
Look on these flowers! As o'er an altar shedding
They are the links, man's heart to nature wedding,
They are from lone wild places, forest-dingles,
Where the sweet star of eve looks down and mingles
They are from where the soft winds play in gladness
Too richly dower'd, oh! friend are we for sadness,—