Of the fading edges of box beneath, Heavily hangs the broad sunflower TENNYSON. IN HERRICK'S LITANY. ́N the hour of my distress, And when I my sins confess, When I lie within my bed, Sweet Spirit, comfort me! When the house doth sigh and weep, When the priest his last hath pray'd, When the judgment is reveal'd, When to thee I have appeal'd, Sweet Spirit, comfort me! HERRICK. SONNET. FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO. TH HE might of one fair face sublimes my love, Instructs me in the bliss that saints approve; From those sweet eyes that are my earthly heaven, I live and love in God's peculiar light. HARTLEY COLERIDGE. [SPRING AND SORROW.] Now OW fades the last long streak of snow, Now burgeons every maze of quick About the flowering squares, and thick, By ashen roots the violets blow. Now rings the woodland loud and long, Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, Where now the seamew pipes, or dives From land to land; and in my breast And buds and blossoms like the rest. In Memoriam. CHORUS OF THE FLOWERS. W E are the sweet Flowers, Born of sunny showers, Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty saith: Utterance mute and bright Of some unknown delight, We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple breath: All who see us, love us; We befit all places; Unto sorrow we give smiles; and unto graces, graces. Mark our ways, how noiseless All, and sweetly voiceless, Though the March winds pipe to make our passage clear; Not a whisper tells Where our small seed dwells, Nor is known the moment green, when our tips appear. We thread the earth in silence, In silence build our bowers, And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh atop, sweet Flowers! The dear lumpish baby, Hails us with his bright stare, stumbling through the grass; The honey-dropping moon, On a night in June, Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the bridegroom pass; Age, the wither'd clinger, On us mutely gazes, And wraps the thought of his last bed in his childhood's daisies. See, and scorn all duller Taste, how heav'n loves colour, How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and green; What sweet thoughts she thinks Of violets and pinks, And a thousand flushing hues, made solely to be seen; See her whitest lilies Chill the silver showers, And what a red mouth has her rose, the woman of the flowers! Uselessness divinest Of a use the finest Painteth us, the teachers of the end of use; Bless us far and wide; Unto sick and prison'd thoughts we give sudden truce; Not a poor town-window Loves its sickliest planting, But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylon's whole vaunting. Sage are yet the uses Mix'd with our sweet juices, Knights from the olden field, We hold cups of mightiest force to give the wildest calm. E'en the terror Poison Hath its plea for blooming; Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the presuming. And oh! our sweet soul-taker, That thief the honey-maker, What a house hath he, by the thymy glen! How the feasting fumes, Till his gold cups overflow to the mouths of men! The butterflies come aping Those fine thieves of ours, And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled flowers with flowers. See those tops, how beauteous! |