CHRISTIAN PATRIOTISM. A fine passage in CowPER's Task PATRIOTS have toil'd, and in their country's cause Proud of the treasure, marches with it down Yet few remember them. They lived unknown, And chased them up to Heaven. Their ashes flew withes. He is the freeman, whom the truth makes free, And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain, That hellish foes, confederate for his harm, Can wind around him, but he casts it off With as much ease as Samson his green He looks abroad into the varied field Of nature, and, though poor perhaps, compared With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, Calls the delightful scenery all his own. His are the mountains, and the valleys his, THE SPRING-TIME. This is inserted here at the request of some readers who say that it will not be quite out of place in the collection. Of that the author is not a competent judge; and perhaps the partiality of friends may have deceived them. If so, he prays pardon for the page he has deformed. It is by the EDITOR of "BEAUTIFUL POETRY," and was published many years ago in one of the "Annuals," The Amulet. It is necessary to state that it was written and printed before Tennyson's "If you're waking call me early." O TAKE me from this close dark room-from this uneasy bed, The clothes so grey and shroud-like lie upon my breast like lead; The ancient ebon wardrobe, and the picture on the wall, And the ticking of the watch, mother, I'm weary of them all. O! take me where the glad free air may visit me again, And the rich evening sunray soothe the sullen throb of pain, Where I may see the grass and hear the robin on the bough, And feel the breath of the early Spring upon my cheek and brow. Then bear me from this dreary room, where everything I see Recalls some hour of anguish or some dream of agony, When you have bent above me, mother, and listen'd to my moan, And felt the pangs of your dying child more keenly than your own. There, lay me on that primrose bank-it was my fav'rite seat; I planted it and water'd it-how clean it was and neat: The flowers are all neglected now -the weeds have grown so fast, I little thought that happy, happy summer was my last. How delicate the air is—all the flowers are coming out, The glad spring-flowers to fling their stores of sweetness round about, The bee is on the wing, the merry swallow sweeps the sky, The gnat hums in the sunbeam, mother, all things are glad but I. Last spring I was so happy; the linnet on the bough, And only by the joys they knew counted the passing hours. Bring me my young geranium, mother, for I want to see My little fav'rite-how it grows-if any flowers there be; Look! there's a bud-but oh! I shall not live to bless its bloom, Twill be so strong and beautiful when I am in the tomb. I always dearly loved the flowers-let heaps of them be spread Upon me in my coffin cold—the living with the dead; And sometimes, in such days as this, so glad, and bright, and mild, Dear mother, will you come and sit by the grave-bed of your child, And will you bring this sweet geranium ?-Though you may not see, I will look down from heaven, and listen while you talk to me. My walnut-tree, too, watch it well when I am gone away; With my own hands I planted it to mark my third birth-day: They told me I should sit beneath its broad green shade, And count the branches on its trunk that many years had made. I wish it was the autumn; I should not care to die When the rich green leaves and the glorious flowers fade as well as I: But in this merry month of May, when all things are awake; Pray for me, mother, to endure, O pray, for pity's sake! DISDAIN RETURNED. A graceful Lyric by CAREW, one of our old poets. As old Time makes these decay, But a smooth and steadfast mind, No tears, Celia, now shall win YOUTH AND AGE. By COLERIDGE. VERSE, a breeze mid blossoms straying, When I was young! Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, That fear no spite of wind or tide! Nought cared this body for wind or weather, When Youth and I lived in't together. Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; O the joys that came down shower-like Ere I was old? Ah woeful ere! TO AN INFANT IN HER MOTHER'S ARMS. By PHILIPS. The date of this poem is May 1, 1724. TIMELY blossom, infant fair, |