THE WOOD ROSE AND THE LAUREL.

Go, leave my bower, and live unknown;

I'll rule the field of flowers alone."

“And dost thou think,"

the Laurel cried,

And raised its head with modest pride,
While on its little trembling tongue

A drop of dew incumbent hung—

"And dost thou think I'll leave this bower, The seat of many a friendly flower,

The scene where first I grew?

Thy haughty reign will soon be o'er,

And thy frail form will bloom no more,

My flower will perish too.

But know, proud Rose,

When Winter's snows

Shall fall where once thy beauties stood,

My pointed leaf of shining green

Will still amid the gloom be seen,

To cheer the leafless wood."

"Presuming fool!" the Wood Rose cried,
And strove in vain her shame to hide ;
But ah! no more the flower could say ;

For, while she spoke, a transient breeze
Came rustling through the neigboring trees,
And bore her boasted charms away.

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ANONYMOUS.

And such, said I, is Beauty's power!
Like thee she falls, poor trifling flower;
And, if she lives her little day,
Life's winter comes with rapid pace,
And robs her form of every grace,
And steals her bloom away.

But in thy form, thou Laurel green,
Fair Virtue's semblance soon is seen.

In life she cheers each different stage,
Spring's transient reign, and Summer's glow,
And Autumn mild, advancing slow,

Lights the dim eye of age.

A

SPIRIT haunts the year's last hours,

Dwelling amidst these yellowing bowers:
To himself he talks;

For at eventide, listening earnestly,

At his work you may hear him sob and sigh,
In the walks;

Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks of the mouldering

flowers:

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower

O'er its grave i' the earth so chilly:

Heavily hangs the hollyhock,

Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.

II.

The air is damp, and hushed, and close,

As a sick man's room, where he taketh repose
An hour before death:

My very heart faints, and my whole soul grieves

At the moist, rich smell of the rotting leaves,

And the breath

9*

202

MY GARDEN.

Of the fading edges of box beneath, and the year's last rose,
Heavily hangs the broad sunflower

Over its grave i' the earth so chilly:
Heavily hangs the hollyhock,

Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.

My Garden.

Caroline Southey.

I

LOVE my Garden!-dearly love

That little spot of ground!

There's not methinks-(though I may err

In partial pride)—a pleasanter

In all the country round!

The smooth green turf winds gently there
With no ungraceful bend,

Round many a bed and many a border,

Where, gayly grouped in sweet disorder,
Young Flora's darlings blend.

Spring Summer! Autumn!-Of all three,

Whose reign is loveliest there?

Oh! is not she who paints the ground,
When its frost fetters are unbound,

The fairest of the fair?

MY GARDEN.

I gaze upon her violet beds,

Laburnums, golden-tress'd;

The flower spiked almonds-breathe perfume,
From lilac and seringa bloom,

And cry, "I love Spring best!"

But Summer comes, with all her pomp
Of fragrance, beauty, bliss!-
And from amidst her bowers of roses,
I sigh, as purple evening closes,

"What season equals this?"

That pageant passes by.

Comes next

Brown Autumn in her turn ;— Oh! not unwelcome cometh she, The parched earth luxuriously Drinks from her dewy urn.

And she has flowers and fragrance too,

Peculiarly her own;

Asters of every hue-perfume,

Spiced rich with clematis and broom,

And mignonette late blown.

Then if some lingering rose I spy

Reclining languidly,

Or the bright laurel's glossy green,

Dear Autumn! my whole heart, I ween,

Leaps up for love of thee!

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