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Nor, April, fail with scent and hue,
thee lowlier blossoms new.
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,
Nor wants there many a flower beside,
Their tendrils, vetch, or pea, or tare,
FROM BISHOP MANT's " BRITISH MONTHS.
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.
How happily, how happily, the flowers die away ;
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;
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.”
FROM MRS. HEMANS' NATIONAL LYRICS.
ON PLANTING A TULIP-ROOT.
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.