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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 rose has but a summer reign,
The daisy never dies.



Ipsara ! thy glory is gone from the sea;
The dark clouds of ruin have settled on thee;
The Cross in its brightness, illumes thee no more,
And the wave rolls in blood round thy desolate shore !

Ipsara ! the sons of the valiant were thine,
And they raised o'er the waters proud liberty's sign;
And the Moslem oft left on the billowy foam
The wreck of his power near their beautiful home.

And lovely thy daughters, and worthy to grace
The dwellings of Greeks who were proud of their race.
Oh! sweetly the wild hymns of freedom they sung,
When thy rocks with the music of victory rung.

But the warrior-bands in their places are given, ::
Like the forest struck down by the red bolts of heaven.
Pale and cold lie thy daughters o'er valley and heath,
Or weep, in their shame, those who slumber in death!

Oh! whence came the ruin that swept to the grave
The graces of beauty and strength of the brave,
And crushed in destruction's most merciless hour,
The pride of the fortress and bloom of the bower.

'Twas not the fierce foe, in his valour that came
To fight, breast to breast, for dominion or fame
Gold purchased the triumph-the traitors' curst hand
Threw open to tyrants the gates of the land,

And then did the dark hordes, who fled from the brave,
When their banners were broken on mountain and wave,
Rush on to revenge, like the demons of wrath,
With a desert of ashes and blood round their path.

But worthy their fathers, their cause and their name,
Ipsara ! thy children died true to their fame;
Like martyrs of freedom they bled in their place,
Still clasping their foes in a fatal embrace.

Ipsara I thy glory is changed into gloom,
And ocean's green Eden is now one wide tomb ;
But thy spirit shall live over mountain and flood,
Till the trophies of despots are dashed in their blood !



Farewell, my gentle harp, farewell!

Thy task will soon be done ;
And she who loved thy lonely spell

Shall, like its tones, be gonem
Gone to the place where mortal pain
Pursues the weary heart in vain.


I shed no tears—light passes by

pang that melts in tears--
The stricken bosom that can sigh

No mortal arrow bears:
When comes the soul's true agony,
The lip is bushed and calm the eye.

And mine has come no more I weep.

No longer passion's slave;

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