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Yet shall arise upon my way,
Affection's buds and blossoms fair ; The same that in my early day
With heavenly fragrance filled the air.
They live—they breathe ; and on my heart
I wear, still wear those cherished flowers ; And death alone those ties can part,
First woven in my home's sweet bowers. O pause, old Time ! for though to thee
I have not brought the tribute due ; And hours, days, years, have fled from me,
Still to my mortal trust untrue ;
Yet, in thy course thou hast not seen,
Ungenerous wish, or fault unmourned, And all that ought not to have been
Upon a sorrowing heart returned.
And ere I bow beneath thy sway,
Full many a virtue shall be mine ; For I will consecrate each day,
To bend at duty's hallowed shrine.
Then pause, old Time, ere o'er my flowers,
Thy fatal sithe is coldly laid ; And leave, O leave, some lingering hours,
Ere Nature's final debt is paid.
FROM THE SACRED OFFERING.
THE LILY OF THE VALLEY*.
Fair flower, that, lapt in lowly glade,
Than whom the vernal gale
Our Lily of the vale!
Art thou that “Lily of the field,”
The heart from blank despair,
Of God's paternal care?
Not thus, I trow; for brighter shine
Those children of the East :
And Tabor's oak-girt crest;
* The Editor has taken a liberty (for which the beauty of the language as well as the poetry must plead her excuse) of extracting this piece from “ The British Months,” a poem in twelve parts, by Dr. MANT, Lord Bishop of Down and Connor, recently published by Mr. Parker, West Strand.
More frequent than the host of night,
Their brilliant disks unfold;
And crowns of burnished gold.
But not the less, sweet spring-tide's flower,
His skill and handywork;
Thy modest blossoms lurk.
What though nor care nor art be thine,
Yet, born to bloom and fade,
Her wealthiest king arrayed.
Of thy twin leaves the embowered screen,
Thy Eden-breathing smell ;
Displays a milk-white bell.
Instinct with life thy fibrous root,
As rising from the dead,
And fills thy veins with verdant juice,
And berries scarlet red.
The triple cell, the twofold seed,
Whence aye thy race may grow,
Or vernal breezes blow.
Who forms thee thus, with unseen hand ?
And willed thee thus to be;
But the great God is he?
Omnipotent to work his will ;
The post to each assigned;
For man's enjoyment-kind !
“ There is no God," the senseless say :“ O God! why cast'st thou us away, ?”
Of feeble faith and frail, The mourner breathes his anxious thought :By thee a better lesson taught,
Sweet lily of the vale !
Yes, He who made and fosters thee,
Of majesty divine.
Who thus provides for thee.
Lone flower, hemmed in with snows as white as they,