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No, nor that nun-like lily, which but blows
Beneath the valley's cool and shady screen;
Nor yet the sun-flower, that with warrior mien,
And muse art dearest, wildest, sweetest nower,
Proudly to root thyself above the rest
Send fragrance to the purest breath of heaven.
| And thou, O virgin queen of spring!
Shalt, from thy dark and lowly bed, MRS. R. TIGHE.
Bursting thy green sheath's silken string,
Unveil thy charms, and perfume shed ;How withered, perished seems the form Or yon obscure, unsightly root!
Unfold thy robes of purest white, Yet from the blight of wintry storm,
Unsallied from their darksome grave, It hides secure the precious fruit.
And thy soft petals' 'silvery light,
In the mild breeze unfettered wave. The careless eye can find no yrace, No beauty in the scaly folds,
So Faith shall seek the lowly dust, Nor see within the dark embrace,
Where humble Sorrow loves to lie, What latent loveliness it holds.
And bid her thus her hopes entrust,
And watch with patient cheerful eye;Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales, The Lily wraps her silver vest,
And bear the long cold wintry night, Till vernal suns and vernal gales,
And bear her own degraded doom, Shall kiss once more her fragrant breast.
And wait till heaven's reviving light,
Eternal spring, shall burst the gloom. Yes, hide beneath the mouldering heap
The undelighting slighted thing; There in the cold earth buried deep, In silence let it wait the spring.
| How fair is the rose! What a beautiful Uninjured lies the future birth ;
The glory of April and May; And Ignorance, with sceptic eye,
But the leaves are beginning to fade in an Hope's patient smile shall wondering view,
hour, Or mock her food credulity,
And they wither and die in a day. As her soft tears the spot bedew.
Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast Sweet smile of Hope, delicious tear,
Above all the flowers of the Held, The sun, the shower indeed shall come, When its leaves are all dead, and fine colours The promised verdant shout appear,
are lost, And nature bid her blossom bloom. I Still how sweet a perfume it will yield
So frail is the youth, and the beauty of man, 1 Like thee the vision came, and went,
In momentary pity sent But all our fond care to preserve them is Of fairer climes to tell; vain,
So frail its form, so short its stay, Time kills them as fast as he goes.. That nought the lingering heart could say,
But hail, and fare thee well! Then I'll not be proud of my youth and my
beauty, Since both of them wither and fade; But gain a good name by well doing my
THE MOSS-ROS E. This will scent like a ruse when I'm dead.
FROM THE GERMAN.
THE WINTER ROSE.
Huil, and farewell, thou lovely guest !
I may not woo thy stay,
Are fading fast away,
And melt in misty grey.
The Angel of the flowers one day,
It was but now thy radiant smile
Broke through the season's gloom,
Thy breathing of perfume,
And sudden as thy doom.
Or mornings, when the wild bee's wing And how she veils her flowers when he ib Shook dew.drops from thy sparkling cell ! | gone,
As if she scorned to be looked mpon In April's bower thy sweets are breathed, By an inferior eye ; or did contemn And June beholds thy blossoms fair;
To wait upon a meaner light than himn : In Autumn's chaplet thou art wreathed,
When this I meditate, methinks, the flowers And round December's forehead bare.
Have spirits far more generous than ours,
The servile fawnings and idolatries
Wherewith we court these earthly things As summer breezes waved her head,
below, And now the snow-drop at thy side
Which merit not the service we bestow. ! Meekly contrasts thy cheerful red.
But, О iny God I though grovelling I appear
Upon the ground, and bave a rooting here, T'is thine to hear each varying voice,
Which hales me downward, yet in my desire That marks the seasons sad or gay;
To that which is above me I aspire ; The summer thrush bids thee rejoice,
And all my best affections I protess And wintry robin's dearer lay.
To him that is the Sun of Righteousness.
Oh! keep the morning of his incarnation, Sweet fower l'how happy dost thou seem The burning poontide of his bitter passion,
'Mid parching heat, 'mid nipping frost : The night of his descending, and the height Wbile gathering beauty from each beam, Of his ascension,-ever in my sight; No bue, no grace of thine is lost ! That, imitating him in what I may,
I never follow an inferior way. Thus Hope, 'mid life's severest days,
Still smiles, still triumphs o'er despair : Alike she lives in Pleasure's rays,
And cold Affliction's winter air.
With drooping bells of clearest blue The bosom's Everlasting Rose !
Thou didst attract my childish view,
So lightly trembling.
Where feathery fern, and golden broom,
Increase the sand-rock cavern's gloom, When with a serious musing I behold
I've seen thee tangled,
rays; How she observes him in his daily walk, 1 Mid ruins tumbling to decay, Still bending tow'rds bim her small slender Thy flowers their heavenly hues display, stalk;
Still freshly springing; How, when he down declines, she droops Where pride and pomp have pass'd away, and mourns,
On mossy tomb and turret gray, Bedew'd, as 'twere with tears, till he returns ; Like friendship clinging.
One morning she saw, on the opposite side,
She tires of her vesture, and swelling with spleen,
But you bave no spirit-would I were as meek." ;
The Primrose good-humour'd replied, “ If you knew
“To stay near him long would be fading or death,