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Such is the fate of simple Bard,

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suff'ring worth is giv'n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv❜n,
By human pride or cunning driv'n

To mis'ry's brink,

Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,
He, ruin'd, sink!

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine-no distant date;
Stern ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,
Full on thy bloom,

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,

Shall be thy doom!

BURNS.

BANKS OF DEVON.

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon, With green-spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair; But the Bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon, Was, once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr.

Mild be the sun on this sweet-blushing flower,
In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew!
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower,
That steals on the evening each leaf to renew.

O, spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes,
With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn!
And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes
The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn!

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies,
And England, triumphant, display her proud rose;
A fairer than either adorns the green valleys,
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.

BURNS.

VERS A MADAME DE CH

SUR SES TABLEAUX DES FLEURS.

J'ENJOUIS de ces fleurs si belles ;
J'admire ce pinceau divin,
Et ces roses si naturelles,
Que le papillon incertain
Viendra voltiger autour d'elles,
L'abeille y chercher son butin,
Les fleurs ne brillent qu'un matin ;
Les votres sont immortelles.
Ah! si j'avois votre talent,
Je peindrais un objêt charmant,
Paré dès graces du jeune âge,
Qui plait dès le premier instant,
Et chaque instant plait d'avantage;
Dans l'amitié tendre et constant,
Sincère sans être imprudent,

Naïf et fin, sensible et sage.
Aisément on devineroit

Quel auroit été mon modèle ;
Ch*** seule ignoreroit,
Que le portrait est d'après elle.

M: DE ST. LAMBERT.

FADING FLOWERS.

THE morning flowers display their sweets,
And gay their silken leaves unfold,
As careless of the noontide heats,
As fearless of the evening cold.

Nipt by the wind's untimely blast,
Parch'd by the sun's directer ray,
The momentary glories waste,

The short-liv'd beauties die away.

So blooms the human face divine,
When youth its pride of beauty shows;
Fairer than spring the colours shine,
And sweeter than the virgin rose.

But worn by slowly rolling years,
Or broke by sickness in a day,

The fading glory disappears,

The short-lived beauties die away.

Yet these new-rising from the tomb,
With lustre brighter far shall shine,

Revive with ever-during bloom,

Safe from diseases and decline.

Let sickness blast, let death devour,
If heaven but recompense our pains;
Ferish the grass and fade the flower,
If firm the word of God remains!

C. WESLEY.

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A MOTHER'S DIRGE OVER HER CHILD.

BRING me flowers all young and sweet,
That I may strew the winding sheet,
Where calm thou sleepest, baby fair,
With roseless cheek and auburn hair!

Bring me the rosemary, whose breath
Perfumed the wild and desert heath;
The lily of the vale, which, too,
In silence and in beauty grew.

Bring cypress from some sunless spot,
Bring me the blue forget-me-not;
That I may strew them o'er thy bier,
With long-drawn sigh and gushing tear.

Oh, what upon this earth doth prove
So steadfast as a mother's love!
Oh, what on earth can bring relief,
Or solace to a mother's grief!

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