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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.


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En voyant ces Eillets, 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.



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.

Tu verras,

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

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.



Call back your odours, lovely flowers,

From the night-winds, call them back ; And fold your leaves till the laughing hours

Come forth in the sunbeam's track.

The lark lies couched in her grassy nest,

And the honey-bee is gone;
And all bright things are away to rest,

Why watch ye here alone ?

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Nay, let our shadowy beauty bloom,

When the stars give quiet light; And let us offer our faint perfume

On the silent shrine of night.

“ Call it not wasted, the scent we lend

To the breeze, when no step is nigh ; Oh, thus for ever the earth should send

Her grateful breath on high !

“ And love us as emblems, night's dewy flowers,

Of hopes unto sorrows given, That spring through the gloom of the darkest hours

Looking alone to heaven.”



HERE lies a bulb, the child of earth,

Buried alive beneath the clod, Ere long to spring, by second birth,

A new and nobler work of God.

'Tis said that microscopic power

Might, through his swaddling folds, descry The infant image of the flower,

Too exquisite to meet the eye.

This, vernal suns and rains will swell,

Till from its dark abode it peep, Like Venus rising from her shell,

Amidst the spring-tide of the deep.

Two shapely leaves will first unfold ;

Then, on a smooth elastic stem, The verdant bud shall turn to gold,

And open in a diadem.

Not one of Flora's brilliant race,

A form more perfect can display ; Art could not feign more simple grace, Nor Nature take a line away.

Yet, rich as morn, of many a hue,

When flushing clouds through darkness strike, The Tulip's petals shine in dew,

All beautiful, but none alike.

Kings, on their bridal, might unrobe,

To lay their glories at its foot;
And queens their sceptre, crown, and globe,

Exchange for blossom, stalk, and root.

Here could I stand and moralise ;

Lady, I leave that part to thee; Be thy next birth in Paradise,

Thy life to come-eternity.



Weave a wreath of varied hues,
Here are garlands twining,
For the gay, the brightest choose,
And drooping for the pining.
“London PRIDE,” for West-end beaux
Or belles, as fancy ranges;
“ Heart's-EASE” too, in plenty grows,
To meet Dame Fortune's changes.

* See the Presentation Plate.

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