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THE PRIMROSE.

Ask me why I send you here
This sweet infanta of the year?
Ask me why I send to you

This Primrose all bepearled with dew?

I will whisper in your ears,

The sweets of love are washed with tears.

Ask me why this flower does shew,

So yellow-green, and sickly too?
Ask me why the stalk is weak,
And bending, yet it doth not break?
I will answer, these discover,

What fainting hopes are in a lover.

HERRICK,

BRING FLOWERS.

BRING flowers, young flowers, for the festal board,
To wreath the cup ere the wine is poured;
Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and vale,
Their breath floats out on the southern gale;
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose,
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows.

Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path,-
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath!
He comes with the spoils of nations back,
The vines lie crushed in his chariot's track;
The turf looks red where he won the day-
Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's way.

Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell,
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell;
Of the free blue streams and the glowing sky,
And the bright world shut from his languid eye :
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours,
And a dream of his youth,-bring him flowers, wild
flowers.

Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!
They were born to blush in her shining hair;
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth,
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth;
Her place is now by another's side-

Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride!

Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed,
A crown for the brow of the early dead!

For this, through its leaves hath the white rose burst,
For this, in the woods was the violet nursed!
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours,
They are love's last gift-bring ye flowers, pale flowers!

Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer,
They are Nature's offering, their place is there!
They speak of hope to the fainting heart,

With a voice of promise they come and part;
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours,

They break forth in glory-bring flowers, bright flowers!

MRS. HEMANS.

THE CELANDINE.

PANSIES, Lilies, King-cups, Daisies,
Let them live upon their praises;
Long as there's a sun that sets,
Primroses will have their glory;
Long as there are Violets,
They will have a place in story :

There's a flower which shall be mine,

'Tis the little Celandine.

Ere a leaf is on the bush,
In the time before the thrush

Has a thought about its nest,
Thou wilt come with half a call,
Spreading out thy glossy breast,
Like a careless prodigal,

Telling tales about the sun,

When there's little warmth, or none.

R

Soon as gentle breezes bring
News of winter's vanishing,

And the children build their bowers,
Sticking 'kerchief plots of mould,

All about with full-blown flowers,
Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold;
With the proudest thou art there,
Mantling in the tiny square.

Comfort have thou of thy merit,
Kindly, unassuming spirit!

Careless of thy neighbourhood,
Thou dost show thy pleasant face
On the moor and in the wood;
In the lane there's not a place,
Howsoever mean it be,

But 'tis good enough for thee.

wwwwww

WORDSWORTH.

SUR DES ŒILLETS ARROSÉS PAR LE GRAND CONDÉ.

EN voyant ces Œillets, qu'un illustre guerrier
Arrose d'une main qui gagna des batailles;
Souviens-toi qu'Apollon batissait des murailles,
Et ne t'étonne pas que Mars soit jardinièr.

MADEMOISELLE DE SCUDERY.

LE MATIN.

LE voile du matin sur les monts se déploie. Vois, un rayon naissant blanchit la vieille tour, Et déjà dans les cieux s'unit avec amour,

Ainsi que la gloire à la joie,

Le premier chant des bois aux premiers feux du jour.

Oui, souris à l'éclat dont le ciel se décore !

Tu verras,

si demain le cerceuil me dévore,

Luire à tes yeux en pleurs un soleil aussi beau, Et les mêmes oiseaux chanter la même aurore, Sur mon noir et muët tombeau !

Mais dans l'autre horison l'âme alors est ravie,
L'avenir sans fin s'ouvre à l'être illimité;
Au matin de l'éternité

On se réveille de la vie,

Comme d'une nuit sombre ou d'un rêve agité.

VICTOR HUGO.

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