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Wait, boastful man ! Though worthy are

Thy deeds when thou art true,
Things worthier still, and holier far,

Our sister yet will do;
For this the worth of woman shows,

On every peopled shore,
That still as man in wisdom grows,

He honours her the more.

Oh, not for wealth, or fame, or power,

Hath man's meek angel striven,
But, silent as the growing flower,

To make of earth a heaven!
And in her garden of the sun

Heaven's brightest rose shall bloom;
For woman's best is unbegun!

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,
And stretch'd her giant sceptre o'er the main,
Taught her proud barks the winding way to shape,
And braved the stormy spirit of the Cape ;
Children of Brama; then was Mercy nigh
To wash the stain of blood's eternal dye ?
Did Peace descend to triumph and to save,
When free born Britons cross'd the Indian wave?
Ah, no! to more than Rome's ambition true,
The nurse of freedom gave it not to you!
She the bold route of Europe's guilt began,
And in the march of nations led the van!

Rich in the gems of India's gaudy zone,
And plunder piled from kingdoms not their own,
Degenerate trade! thy minions could despise
The heart-born anguish of a thousand cries;

Could lock with impious hands their teeming store,
While famish'd nations died along the shore;
Could mock the groans of fellow men, and bear
The curse of kingdoms peopled with despair;
Could stamp disgrace on man's polluted name,
And barter with their gold-eternal shame!

But hark ! as bow'd to earth the Bramin kneels,
From heavenly climes propitious thunder peals!
Of India's fate her guardian spirits tell,
Prophetic murmurs breathing on the shell,
And solemn sounds that awe the listening mind
Roll on the azure path of every wind.

“Foes of mankind !” her guardian spirits say,
“Revolving ages bring the bitter day,
When beaven's unerring arm shall fall on you,
And blood for blood-these Indian plains bedew :
Nine times have Brama's wheels of lightning hurl'd
His awful presence o'er the alarmed world ;
Nine times hath guilt, through all its giant frame,
Convulsive trembled as the mighty came;
Nine times hath suffering mercy spared in vain-
But heaven shall burst her starry gates again!
He comes ! dread Brama shakes the sunless sky
With murmuring wrath, and thunders from on high !
Heaven's fiery horse, beneath his warrior form,
Paws the light clouds and gallops on the storm.
“ Wide waves his flickering sword, his bright arms glow
Like summer suns, and light the worlds below!
Earth, and her trembling isles in ocean's bed
Are shook, and nature rocks beneath his tread !

“To pour redress on India's injured realm,
The oppressor to dethrone, the proud to whelm;
To chase destruction from her plunder'd shore
With arts and arms that triumph'd once before,
The tenth Avatar comes! at heaven's command
Shall Seriswattee wave her hallow'd hand !
And Camdes bright, and Ganesa sublime,
Shall bless with joy their own propitious clime!
Come, heavenly powers, primeval peace restore !
Love! mercy! wisdom! rule for evermore !"

STANZAS.

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;
Bright children of the sun and showers,

Here do they rise, earth's offerings.
Rich be the dew upon you shed,

Green be the bough that o'er you waves,
Weariless watchers by the dead,

Unblenching dwellers 'midst the graves !

Oh! spare the flowers ! their sweet perfume,

Upon the wandering zephyr cast,
And lingering o'er the lowly tomb,

Is like the memory of the past.
They flourish freshly, though beneath

Lie the dark dust and creeping worm,
They speak of hope, they speak of faith;

They smile, like rainbows through the storm.

Pluck not the flowers—the sacred flowers !

Go where the garden's treasures spread,
Where strange bright blossoms deck the bowers,

And spicy trees their odours shed.
There pluck, if thou delight'st, indeed,

To shorten life so brief as theirs,
But here the admonition heed-

A blessing on the hand that spares !

Pluck not the flowers ! In days gone by

A beautiful belief was felt,
That fairy spirits of the sky

Amidst the trembling blossoms dwelt.
Perhaps the dead have many a guest,

Holier than any that are ours,
Perhaps their guardian angels rest

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.
COME, 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 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 !

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