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Methought that of these visionary flowers
I made a nosegay, bound in such a way That the same hues, which in their natural bowers
Were mingled or opposed, the like array Kept these imprison'd children of the Hours
Within my hand, and then, elate and gay, I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come, That I might there present it-oh! to whom ?
THE DIAL OF FLOWERS.
By Mrs. HEMANS.
As they floated in light away,
That laugh to the summer's day.
Thus had each moment its own rich hue,
And its graceful cup or bell,
Like a pearl in an ocean-shell.
To such sweet signs might the time have flow'd
In a golden current on,
The glorious guests were gone.
Those days of song and dreams-
By the blue Arcadian streams.
Far off in a breezeless main,
Hath sought, but still in vain.
Yet is not life, in its real flight,
Mark'd thus-even thus-on earth, • By the closing of one hope's delight,
And another’s gentle birth ?
Oh! let us live, so that flower by flower,
Shutting in turn, may leave
A charm for the shaded eve.
Through the shadowy past,
AN UTILITARIAN. He is a slave to science. He would pull Great Heaven to pieces; and anatomize Each fragment of its crystal battlements : Weigh out its hymns, divide its light, and class The radiant feathers of archangels' wings. Do we not know,-doth he not know, that still Mysterious wonder aye must reign above us, Struggle howe'er we may ? Doth he not know, That adoration and great wonder (like Good deeds which bless the giver) ever lift The soul above the dust, and strengthen us,
EPITAPH ON A CHILD,
Not once or twice in our rough island story
ALFRED TENNYSON. THE MOWER'S MAIDEN.
Translated from the German of UHLAND. " Good morrow to thee, Mary, right early art thou laden! Love hath not made thee slothful, thou true and steadfast
maiden! Ay, if in three brief days, methinks, thy task of work be
done, I shall no longer have the heart to part thee from my son."
It was a wealthy farmer spake, it was a maiden listened-
glistened! New life is in her limbs, her hand outdoes her comrades all; See how she wields the scythe, and see how fast the full
And when the noon grows sultry, and the weary peasants
wend To sleep in pleasant thickets and o'er cooling streains to
bend; Still are the humming-bees at work beneath that burning
sky, And Mary, diligent as they, works on unceasingly. The sun bath sunk, the evening bell gives gentle summons
home; “Enough,” her neighbours cry, “enough! come, Mary,
prithee come !" Shepherds, and flocks, and husbandmen, pass homeward
through the dew, But Mary only whets her scythe, and goes to work anew.
And now the dews are thickening, the moon and stars are
bright; Sweet are the new-mown furrows, and sweet the songs of But Mary lies not down to rest, and stands not still to
The rustling of her ceaseless scythe is music to her ear.
Even thus from morn till evening, even thus from eve to
morn, She toils, by strong love nourish'd, by happy hope upborne; Till when the third day's sun arose, the labour was com
plete, And there stood Mary weeping, for joy so strange and
" Good morrow to thee, Mary! How now ?-the task is
done! Lo, for such matchless industry, rich guerdon shall be won; But for the wedding—nay, indeed—my words were only
jest, How foolish and how credulous we find a lover's breast!"
He spake and went his way, and there the hapless maid
stood still, Her weary limhis they shook, they sank, her heart grew
stiff and chill; Speech, sense, and feeling, like a cloud, did from her spirit
pass, And there they found her lying upon the new-mown grass!
And thus a dumb and death-like life for years the maiden
led A drop of fragrant honey was all her daily bread. Oh, make ber grave in pleasant shades, where softest
flow'rets grow, For such a loving heart as hers is seldom found below!
A HILL-SIDE WOOD.