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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,
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,
For fairest of all is she.
THOMAS HOOD. It comes afar, from that beloved place,
And that beloved hour,
Go, lovely rose !
Tell her that wastes her time and me, A spring goes singing through its reedy grass ;
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
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
In deserts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth-
Suffer herself to be desired,
WILLIAN W. STORY. And not blush so to be admired.
Then die, that she
May read in thee-
I WILL not have the mad Clytie,
FLOWERS are fresh, and bushes green,
Cheerily the linnets sing;
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
Taste) how Heaven loves color;
How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and Blighted love shall never blow!
green ; LUIS DE CAMOENS, (Portuguese.)
What sweet thoughts she thinks
Of violets and pinks,
Chill the silver showers,
And what a red mouth is her rose, the woman
of her flowers.
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;
Bless us, far and wide; We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple Unto sick and prisoned thoughts we give sudbreath:
den truce :
Not a poor town window
Loves its sickliest planting,
Mark our ways, how noiseless
Sagest yet the uses
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
Knights from the olden field,
We hold cups of mightiest force to give the Nor is known the moment green when our
Even the terror, poison,
Hath its plea for blooming ;
Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh
And oh! our sweet soul-taker,
That thief, the honey-maker,
How the feasting fumes,
47 Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of Drooping grace unfurls men!
Still Hyacinthus' curls,
And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish
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
Fit for sagest tables,
And the flowers are true things—yet no fa-
Bright, nor loved of yore-
Yet they grew not, like the flowers, by every
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?
Who its love, without us, can fancy—or sweet
To say we sprang not there-
And came not down, that Love might bring
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.
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 with childlike, credulous affection,
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!
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!
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!
'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.
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 ;
NATURE AND THE POETS.
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
And second birth.
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
NATURE AND THE POETS.
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
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;