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and low,

Nor will I dreary rosemarye,

That always mourns the dead ;

But I will woo the dainty rose, 0! faint, delicious, spring-time violet, With her cheeks of tender red.

Thine odor, like a key,
Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let The lily is all in white, like a saint,
A thought of sorrow free.

And so is no mate for me

And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush, The breath of distant fields upon my brow She is of such low degree;

Blows through that open door Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves, The sound of wind-borne bells more sweet And the broom 's betrothed to the bee ;

But I will plight with the dainty rose,
And sadder than of yore.

For fairest of all is she.

THOMAS HOOD. It comes afar, from that beloved place,

And that beloved hour,
When life hung ripening in love's golden

Like grapes above a bower.

Go, lovely rose !

Tell her that wastes her time and me, A spring goes singing through its reedy grass ;

That now she knows,
The lark sings o'er my head,

When I resemble her to thee,
Drowned in the sky-0 pass, ye visions, pass!

How sweet and fair she seems to be. I would that I were dead !

Tell her that's young, Why hast thou opened that forbidden door

And shuns to have her graces spied, From which I ever flee?

That hadst thou sprung
O, vanished Joy! O Love, that art no more,

In deserts where no men abide,
Let my vexed spirit be!

Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth
O violet! thy odor through my brain
Hath searched, and stung to grief

Of beauty from the light retired;

Bid her come forth-
This sunny day, as if a curse did stain

Suffer herself to be desired,
Thy velvet leaf.

WILLIAN W. STORY. And not blush so to be admired.


Then die, that she
The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee-
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair,



I WILL not have the mad Clytie,
Whose head is turned by the sun ;
The tulip is a courtly quean,
Whom, therefore, I will shun;
The cowslip is a country wench
The violet is a nun;-
But I will woo the dainty rose,
The queen of every one.
The pea is but a wanton witch,
In too much haste to wed,
And clasps her rings on every hand;
The wolfsbane I should dread ;-

FLOWERS are fresh, and bushes green,

Cheerily the linnets sing;
Winds are soft, and skies serene;
Time, however, soon shall throw

Winter's snow
O'er the buxom breast of Spring!

Hope, that buds in lover's heart,

The honey-dropping moon, Lives not through the scorn of years;

On a night in June, Time makes love itself depart;

Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the Time and scorn congeal the mind

bridegroom pass. Looks unkind

Age, the withered clinger, Freeze affection's warmest tears.

On us mutely gazes,

And wraps the thought of his last bed in his Time shall make the bushes green;

childhood's daisies. Time dissolve the winter snow; Winds be soft, and skies serene;

See (and scorn all duller
Linnets sing their wonted strain.

Taste) how Heaven loves color;
But again

How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and Blighted love shall never blow!

green ; LUIS DE CAMOENS, (Portuguese.)

What sweet thoughts she thinks
Translation of LORD STRANGFORD.

Of violets and pinks,
And a thousand flushing hues made solely to

be seen:
See her whitest lilies

Chill the silver showers,

And what a red mouth is her rose, the woman

of her flowers.
We are the sweet flowers,
Born of sunny showers,

Uselessness divinest, (Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty

Of a use the finest, saith ;)

Painteth us, the teachers of the end of use;
Utterance, mute and bright,

Travelers, weary-eyed,
Of some unknown delight,

Bless us, far and wide; We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple Unto sick and prisoned thoughts we give sudbreath:

den truce :
All who see us love us-

Not a poor town window
We befit all places;

Loves its sickliest planting,
Unto sorrow we give smile3—and unto graces, But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylo-

nian vaunting.


Mark our ways, how noiseless

Sagest yet the uses
All, and sweetly voiceless,

Mixed with our sweet juices, Though the March-winds pipe to make our Whether man or May-fly profit of the balm; passage clear;

As fair fingers healed
Not a whisper tells

Knights from the olden field,
Where our small seed dwells,

We hold cups of mightiest force to give the Nor is known the moment green when our

wildest calm,
tips appear.

Even the terror, poison,
We thread the earth in silence,

Hath its plea for blooming ;
In silence build our bowers-

Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh

the presuming.
a-top, sweet flowers.

And oh! our sweet soul-taker,
The dear lumpish baby,

That thief, the honey-maker,
Humming with the May-bee, What a house hath he, by the thymny glen!
Hails us with his bright star, stumbling In his talking rooms
through the grass;

How the feasting fumes,


47 Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of Drooping grace unfurls men!

Still Hyacinthus' curls,
The butterflies come aping

And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish
Those fine thieves of ours,

rill; And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled Thy red lip, Adonis, flowers with flowers.

Still is wet with morning;

And the step that bled for thee the rosy
See those tops, how beauteous!

brier adorning.
What fair service duteous
Round some idol waits, as on their lord the 0! true things are fables,

Fit for sagest tables,
Elfin court 't would seem,

And the flowers are true things—yet no fa-
And taught, perchance, that dream

bles they;
Which the old Greek mountain dreamt, upon Fables were not more
nights divine.

Bright, nor loved of yore-
To expound such wonder

Yet they grew not, like the flowers, by every
Human speech avails not,

old pathway; Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a Grossest hand can test usglory exhales not.

Fools may prize us never

Yet we rise, and rise, and rise-marvels sweet Think of all these treasures,

for ever. Matchless works and pleasures, Every one a marvel, more than thought can

Who shall say that flowers

Dress not heaven's own bowers?
Then think in what bright showers

Who its love, without us, can fancy—or sweet
We thicken fields and bowers,

And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle Who shall even dare
wanton May;

To say we sprang not there-
Think of the mossy forests

And came not down, that Love might bring
By the bee-birds haunted,

one piece of heaven the more? And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying

O! pray believe that angels as enchanted.

From those blue dominions

Brought us in their white laps down, 'twixt Trees themselves are ours;

their golden pinions.

Fruits are born of flowers;
Peach, and roughest nut, were blossoms in

the Spring;
The lusty bee knows well
The news, and comes pell-mell,

And dances in the gloomy thicks with dark-
some antheming;

SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden, Beneath the very burden

One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, Of planet-pressing ocean,

When he called the flowers, so blue and We wash our smiling cheeks in peace—a golden, thought for meek devotion.

Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine.

Tears of Phoebus—missings

Stars they are, wherein we read our history, Of Cytherea's kissings,

As astrologers and seers of eld; Have in us been found, and wise men find Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, them still ;

Like the burning stars which they beheld.

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, In the cottage of the rudest peasant ;

God hath written in those stars above; In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towBut not less in the bright flowerets under us ers, Stands the revelation of his love.

Speaking of the Past unto the Present,

Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers. Bright and glorious is that revelation,

Writ all over this great world of ours, In all places, then, and in all seasons, Making evident our own creation,

Flowers expand their light and soul-like In these stars of earth, these golden flow wings, ers.

Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,

How akin they are to human things.
And the poet, faithful and far-seeing,
Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part

And with childlike, credulous affection,
Of the self-same, universal being

We behold their tender buds expandWhich is throbbing in his brain and heart. Emblems of our own great resurrection,

Emblems of the bright and better land. Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining,

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,

Buds that open only to decay ;

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, HYMN TO THE FLOWERS.

Flaunting gayly in the golden light; Large desires, with most uncertain issues, DAY-STARS! that ope your eyes with morn Tender wishes, blossoming at night!

to twinkle

From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation, These in flowers and men are more than And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle seeming;

As a libation!
Workings are they of the self-same powers
Which the poet, in no idle dreaming,

Ye matin worshippers! who bending lowly Seeth in himself and in the flowers

Before the uprisen sun-God's lidless eye

Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy Everywhere about us are they glowing

Incense on high! Some, like stars, to tell us Spring is born; Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, Ye bright mosaics! that with storied beauty Stand, like Ruth, amid the golden corn.

The floor of Nature's temple tessellate,

What numerous emblems of instructive duty Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,

Your forms create!
And in Summer's green-emblazoned field,
But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,
In the centre of his brazen shield;

'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that

swingeth Not alone in meadows and green alleys,

And tolls its perfume on the passing air, On the mountain-top, and by the brink

Makes sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth

A call to prayer.
Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys,
Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink;

Not to the domes where crumbling arch and Not alone in her vast dome of glory,

column Not on graves of bird and beast alone, Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, But to that fane, most catholic and solemn, On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone;

Which God hath planned ;



To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, Posthumous glories! angel-like collection! Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon Upraised from seed or bulb interred in supply

Its choir the winds and waves, its organ Ye are to me a type of resurrection,

And second birth.
Its dome the sky.

Were I, O God, in churchless lands remainThere—as in solitude and shade I wander

ing, Through the green aisles, or, stretched upon

Far from all voice of teachers or divines, the sod,

My soul would find, in flowers of thy ordainAwed by the silence, reverently ponder


Priests, sermons, shrines ! The ways of God


Your voiceless lips, O Flowers, are living

Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book,

Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers
From loneliest nook.

I stood tiptoe upon a little hill,

The air was cooling, and so very still, Floral Apostles ! that in dewy splendor That the sweet buds, which with a modest “Weep without woe, and blush without a

pride crime,"

Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, O may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender, Their scanty-leaved and finely-tapering stems, Your lore sublime ! Had not yet lost their starry diadems

Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. "Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy glory, The clouds were pure and white as flocks Arrayed,” the lilies cry, “in robes like new-shorn, ours;

And fresh from the clear brook ; sweetly How vain your grandeur! Ah, how transitory they slept Are human flowers !"

On the blue fields of heaven, and then there

crept In the sweet-scented pictures, Heavenly Art- A little noiseless noise among the leaves, ist!

Born of the very sigh that silence heaves; With which thou paintest Nature's wide- For not the faintest motion could be seen spread hall,

Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green. What a delightful lesson thou impartest There was wide wandering, for the greediest Of love to all.


To peer about upon varietyNot useless are ye, Flowers ! though made Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim, for pleasure :

And trace the dwindled edgings of its brimBlooming o'er field and wave, by day and To picture out the quaint and curious bendnight,

ing From every source your sanction bids me of a fresh woodland alley never-endingtreasure

Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves, Harmless delight.

Guess where the jaunty streams refresh them

selves. Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary I gazed awhile, and felt as light and free For such a world of thought could furnish As though the fanning wings of Mercury scope?

Had played upon my heels: I was lightEach fading calyx a memento mori,

hearted, Yet fount of hope. And many pleasures to my vision started;

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