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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,
Still eyes the orb of glory where it gluws:--
But thou, neglected toall.flower, to my breast

And muse art dearest, wildest, sweetest nower,
To whom alone the privilege is given

Proudly to root thyself above the rest
As genius does, and, from thy rocky tower,

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.

Oh! many a stormy night shall close

In gloom upon the barren earth,
While still in undisturbed repose,

| 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,
Though they bloom, and look gay, like a Like thee it bloomed and fell,
rose ;

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.





Huil, and farewell, thou lovely guest !

I may not woo thy stay,
The hues that paint thy glowing vest,

Are fading fast away,
Like the returning tints that die
At evening on the western sky, .. .

And melt in misty grey.

The Angel of the flowers one day,
Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay,
That spirit to whom charge is given
To bathe young buds in dews of heaven;
Awaking from his light repose,
The angel whispered to the rose :
“O fondest object of my care
“ Still fairest found, where all are fair;
“ For the sweet shade thou givest to me,
“ Ask what thou wilt 'tis granted thee !"
“Then,” said the rose, with deepened glow,
“ On me another grace bestow!"-
The spirit pavsed in silent thought,
What grace was there that flower had not?
"Twas but a moment-o'er the rose
A veil of moss the angel throws,
And robed in nature's simplest weed,
Could there a flower that rose exceed?

It was but now thy radiant smile

Broke through the season's gloom,
As bending I inbaled awhile

Thy breathing of perfume,
And traced on every silken leaf
A tale of summer, sweet and brief,

And sudden as thy doom.

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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,
And give us fair examples, to despise

The servile fawnings and idolatries
With thee the graceful lily vied,

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.

Charmer alike in lordly bower,
And in the hermit's cell she glows;

The Poet's and the Lover's flower,

With drooping bells of clearest blue The bosom's Everlasting Rose !

Thou didst attract my childish view,

Almost resembling
The azure butterflies that flew
Where on the heath thy blossoms grew,

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,
The grateful and obsequious marygold, 'Mid tufts of purple heather bloom,
How duly, every morning, she displays By vain Arachne's treacherous loom,
Her open breast when Phoebus spreads his With dew-drops spangled.

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.

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One morning she saw, on the opposite side,
A Fox-glove displaying his colours of pride :
She gazed on bis form that in stateliness grew,
And envied his height, and his brilliant hue;
She mark'd how the flow'rets all gave way before him,
While they press'd ronnd her dwelling with far less decorum :
Dissatisfied, jealous, and peevish she grows,
And the sight of this Fox-glove destroys her repose.

She tires of her vesture, and swelling with spleen,
Cries, “Ne'er such a dowdy blue mantle was seen!”
Nor keeps to herself any | onger ber pain,
But thus to a Primrose begins to complain :
" I envy your mood, that can patient abide
“ The respect paid that Fox-glove, his airs and his pride:
« There you sit, still the same, with your colourless cheek;

But you bave no spirit-would I were as meek." ;

The Primrose good-humour'd replied, “ If you knew
“ More about him-(remember I'm older than you,
“And, better instructed, can tell you his tale)
“ You'd envy him least of all flowers in the vale :
« With all his fine airs and his dazzling show,
" No blossom more baneful and odions can blow;
" And the reason that flow'rets before him give way
" Is because they all hate him and shrink from his sway.

“To stay near him long would be fading or death,
" For he scatters a pest with his venomous breath;
" While the flowers that you fancy are crowding you there,
“ Spring round you, delighted your converse to share:
“ His flame-colour'd robe is imposing, 'tis true ;
" Yet, who likes it so well as your mantle of blue ?
" For we know that of innocence one is the vest,
" The other the cloak of a treacherous breast.

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