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Nor, April, fail with scent and hue,

thee lowlier blossoms new.
Not only that, where weak and scant
Peep'd forth the early primrose plant,
Now shine profuse unnumbered eyes,
Like stars that stud the wintry skies ;
But that its sister cowslip's nigh,
With no unfriendly rivalry
Of form and tint, and fragrant smells,
O’er the green fields their yellow bells
Unfold, bedropt with tawny red,
And meekly bend the drooping head.
Not only that the fringed edge
Of heath, or bank, or pathway hedge,
Glows with the furze's golden bloom;
But mingling now, the verdant broom,
With flowers of rival lustre deck’d,
Uplifts its shapelier form erect.

And there upon the sod below, Ground-ivy's purple blossoms show, Like helmet of crusader knight, Its anthers' crosslike forms of white ; And lesser periwinkle’s bloom, Like carpet of Damascus' loom,

Pranks with bright blue the tissue wove,
Of verdant foliage : and above,
With milk-white flowers, whence soon shall swell,
Rich fruitage, to the taste and smell
Pleasant alike, the strawberry weaves
Its coronets of three-fold leaves,
In mazes through the sloping wood.
Nor wants there, in her dreamy mood,
What fancy's sportiveness may think
A cup, whence midnight elves might drink
Delicious drops of nectar'd dew,
While they their fairy sports pursue,
And roundelays by fount or rill;
The streaked and chequered daffodil.

Nor wants there many a flower beside,
On holt, and hill, and meadow pied;
With pale green bloom the upright box,
And woodland crowfoot's golden locks ;
And yellow cinquefoil's hairy trail ;
And saxifrage with petals pale ;
And purple bilberry's globelike head;
And cranberry's bells of rosy red;
And creeping growwell blue and bright;
And cranesbill's streaks of red and white,
Or purple, with soft leaves of down;
And golden tulip's turban'd crown,
Sweet-scented on its bending stem ;
And bright-eyed star of Bethlehem.
With those, the firstlings of their kind,
Which through the bosky thickets wind

Their tendrils, vetch, or pea, or tare,
At random ; and with many a pair
Of leafits green the brake embower,
And many a pendent-painted flower.



How happily, how happily, the flowers die away ;
Oh, could we but return to earth as easily as they !
Just live a life of sunshine, of innocence, and bloom,
Then drop, without decrepitude or pain, into the tomb.

The gay and glorious creatures ! they neither “ toil nor

spin;" Yet, lo! what goodly raiment they're all apparelled in; No tears are on their beauty, but dewy gems more

bright, Than ever brow of eastern queen endiademed with


The young rejoicing creatures ! their pleasures never

pall; Nor lose in sweet contentment, because so free to all! The dew, the showers, the sunshine, the balmy, blessed

air, Spend nothing of their freshness, though all may freely



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 ?

“ 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.

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