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TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.

MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire!
Whose modest form, so delicately fine,

Was nursed in whirling storms,

And cradled in the winds.

Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway,
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,
Thee on this bank he threw,

To mark his victory.

In the low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale,
Unnoticed and alone,

Thy tender elegance.

So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of chill adversity; in some lone walk

Of life she rears her head,

Obscure and unobserved;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows,
Chastens her spotless purity of breast,

And hardens her to bear

Serene the ills of life.

KIRKE WHITE.

THE BUD OF THE ROSE.

HER mouth, which a smile,
Devoid of all guile,

Half opened to view,
Is the bud of the rose,
In the morning that blows,
Impearled with the dew.
More fragrant her breath
Than the flow'r-scented heath
At the dawning of day;
The lily's perfume,

The hawthorn in bloom,

Or the blossoms of May.

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OLD SONG.

MORTE DI DARDINELLO.

COME purpureo fior languendo muore,
Che'l vomere al passar tagliato lassa,
O come carco di superchio umore
Il Papaver nell'orto il capo abbassa ;
Cosi giù della faccia ognio colore,
Cadendo, Dardinel, di vita passa :
Passa di vita, e fa passar con lui
L'ardire e la virtù du tutti i sui.

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THE SUNFLOWER.

WHO can unpitying see the flow'ry race

Shed by the moon their new flush'd bloom resign
Before the parching beam? so fades the face,
When fevers revel through their azure veins,
But one the lofty follower of the sun,
Sad when he sets, shuts up her yellow leaves,
Drooping all night, and when he warm returns
Points her enamour'd bosom to his ray.

THOMSON.

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THE SNOWDROP.

ALREADY now the snowdrop dares appear,
The first pale blossom of th' unripen'd year;
As Flora's breath, by some transforming power,
Had chang'd an icicle into a flower,

Its name and hue the scentless plant retains,
And winter lingers in its icy veins.

BARBAULD.

A CHRISTMAS WREATH.

A WREATH for merry Christmas quickly twine,
A wreath for the bright red sparkling wine,
Though roses are dead

And their bloom is fled,

Yet for Christmas a bonnie, bonnie wreath we'll twine.
Away to the wood where the bright holly grows,
And its red berries blush amid winter snows,
Away to the ruin where the green ivy clings,
And around the dark fane its verdure flings;
Hey! for the ivy and holly so bright,
They are the garlands for Christmas night.

LOUISA ANNE TWAMLEY.

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A DAISY'S OFFERING.

THINK of the flowers culled for thee,
In vest of silvery white,
When other flowers perchance you see,
Not fairer, but more bright.

Sweet roses and carnations gay,
Have but a summer's reign;
I mingle with the buds of May,
Join drear December's train.

A simple unassuming flower,

'Mid showers and storms I bloom;
I'll decorate thy lady's bower,
And blossom on thy tomb.

FIELD FLOWERS.

YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true,
Yet, wildlings of nature, I dote upon you;

For ye waft me to summers of old,

When the earth teemed around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold.

I love you for lulling me back into dreams,
Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams,
And of broken blades breathing their balm;

While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote,
And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note
Made music that sweetened the calm.

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune
Than ye speak to my heart, little wildlings of June;
Of old ruinous castles ye tell;

I thought it delightful your beauties to find,

When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind, And your blossoms were part of her spell.

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