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A FIELD FLOWER.
There is a flower, a little flower,
With silver crest and golden eye, That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.
The prouder beauties of the field **
In gay but quick succession shine, Race after race their honours yield,
They flourish and decline.
But this small flower,
to nature dear, While moons and stars their courses run, Wreathes the whole circle of the year,
Companion of the sun.
It smiles upon the lap of May,
To sultry August spreads its charms, Lights pale October on his way,
And twines December's arms.
The purple heath, and golden broom,
On moory mountains catch the gale, O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume,
The violet in the vale.
But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forests, haunts the glen, Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.
Within the garden's cultured round,
It shares the sweet carnation's bed; And blooms on consecrated ground
In honour of the dead.
The lambkin crops its crimson gem,
The wild bee murmurs on its breast, The blue fly bends its pensile stem,
Light o'er the sky-lark's nest.
'Tis Flora's page :-In every place,
In every season, fresh and fair, It opens with perennial grace,
And blossoms every-where.
On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise ;
THE CAPTURE OF IPSARA.
Ipsara ! thy glory is gone from the sea;
Ipsara ! the sons of the valiant were thine,
And lovely thy daughters, and worthy to grace
But the warrior-bands in their places are given, ::
Oh! whence came the ruin that swept to the grave
'Twas not the fierce foe, in his valour that came
And then did the dark hordes, who fled from the brave,
But worthy their fathers, their cause and their name,
Ipsara I thy glory is changed into gloom,
Farewell, my gentle harp, farewell!
Thy task will soon be done ;
Shall, like its tones, be gonem
I shed no tears—light passes by
pang that melts in tears--
No mortal arrow bears:
And mine has come no more I weep.
No longer passion's slave;