TO A WITHERED ROSE.

And my Greenhouse I will cherish,
For its flowers will never die ;
They will join the one great garden,
And for ever bloom on high.

May its weeds be stifled quickly
By the Gardener's watchful care;

For above in that bright Eden

Nought may bloom but flowerets fair.

To a Withered Rose.

Mrs. Whitman.

ALE flower-pale, fragile, faded flower;

PALE

What tender recollections swell,

What thoughts of deep and thrilling power

Are kindled by thy mystic spell!

A charm is in thy faint perfume,

To call up visions of the past,

Which, through my mind's o'ershadowing gloom, "Rush, like the rare stars, dim and fast."

And loveliest shines that evening hour,
More dear by time and sorrow made,

When thou wert culled (love's token flower!)
And on my throbbing bosom laid.

329

330

ΤΟ A FLOWER.

On eve's pale brow one star burned bright,
Like heavenward hope, whose soothing beam,
Is veiled from pleasure's dazzled sight,

To shine on sorrow's diadem.

Bright as the tears thy beauty wept,
The dew-drops on thy petals lay,

Till evening's silver winds had swept
Thy cheek, and kissed them all away.

To a Flower,

FOUND IN A CHEST OF TEA.

H. W. Parker.

A FADED blue-bell in a chest of tea,

A messenger from distant regions sent

A voyager across the mighty sea—

A link 'twixt continent and continent!
Though but a waif—a trifle-thou to me

Of many scenes and thoughts art eloquent;
Of scenes fantastic, beautiful and strange,
As lie within the world's unbounded range.

то A FLOWER.

The central flowery kingdom was thy home,
And thou, a witness of its light and bloom,
Art sent of Heaven, if not of men, to roam,
Imprisoned darkly in a fragrant tomb,
And tossed upon the surging ocean's foam,

Until, enshrined within a, student's room,
Thy crushed and brittle leaflets are unfurled
To greet the sunhine of a Western World.

Oh, that thy quickened life could flow again,
And that we knew the silent thoughts of flowers!
Thy deep-blue eyes and leafy lips would then
Declare if other skies are sweet as ours-
Would speak of wondrous climes beyond our ken,
And wile away the silver-sandaled hours

With many tales of that mysterious land,

Around whose breadth the walls of ages stand.

And yet 'tis not because an unknown soil
Bore thee, that thou to me a treasure art;
For there man's lot is no less one of toil;

He bears about the self-same human heart.
He knows the same sweet peace or wild turmoil,
And frets out life in camp, and court, and mart;
The same winds blow, no other sunlight warms,
And all is Nature's self in other forms.

331

332

THE NEW-YEAR.

This simple flower has deeper thoughts for me,

For that, like mine and every living soul,
It has its own unravelled history

Recorded on no earthly page or scroll;
For that it is a thread of sympathy

With lands beyond, where other oceans roll;
Within the infant rind of this small flower,
MEMORY hath "residence," and FANCY "power."

The New-Year.

Tennyson.

DIP

IP down upon the northern shore,
Oh sweet New-Year, delaying long;
Thou doest expectant Nature wrong,
Delaying long, delay no more.

What stays thee from the clouded noons,
Thy sweetness from its proper place?
Can troubles live with April days,

Or sadness in the Summer moons?

Bring orchis, bring the fox-glove spire,
The little speedwell's darling blue,
Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew,
Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire.

CHILDHOOD.

Oh thou, New-Year, delaying long,
Delayest the sorrow in my blood,
That longs to burst a frozen bud,
And flood a fresher throat with song.

Childhood.

I

NEVER wander 'mong the flowers,
But mem'ry will be straying
To other days and other hours,
When childhood went a-May-ing.

O precious days, O happy hours,
How mem'ry backward lingers,
To pluck again the dewy flowers,
With childhood's rosy fingers.

O give me back that olden time,
When childhood knew no sorrow
But only cared to pluck life's flowers,
And dreamed not of the morrow.

Anon.

333