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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 fine 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,
“To pour redress on India's injured realm,
By MARY ANNE BROWNE. “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 moreAffection 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. THERE 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.
By Mrs. HEMANS.
Of thought and beauty! Here are books and flowers, With spells to loose the fetter which hath bound thee
The ravell’d coil of this world's feverish hours.
The soul of song is in these deathless pages,
Even as the odour in the flower enshrined ; Here the crown'd spirits of departed ages
Have left the silent melodies of mind.
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 · By the old traces of man's toil and care, But the green peaceful world, that never sorrow'd,
The world of leaves, and dews, and summer air !
Look on these flowers! As o'er an altar shedding
O'er Milton's page, soft light from colourd urns ! They are the links, man's heart to nature wedding,
When to her breast the prodigal returns.
They are from lone wild places, forest-dingles,
Fresh banks of many a low-voiced hidden stream, Where the sweet star of eve looks down and mingles
Faint lustre with the water-lily's gleam.
They are from where the soft winds play in gladness
Covering the turf with pearly blossom-showers; Too richly dower'd, oh! friend are we for sadness,
Look on an empire-mind and nature-ours !