ON THE LILY.

BOLD Oxlip, and

The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds,

The Flower-de-luce being one. Of these I lack
To make you garlands of, and my sweet friend
To strew him o'er and o'er.

SHIPWRECKED Upon a kingdom where no pity,
No friends, no hope, no kindred, weep for me;
Almost, no grave allowed me like the lily,
That once was mistress of the field and flourished,
I'll hang my head and perish.

KING HENRY VIII.

wwwwww.

Observe the rising lily's snowy grace,
Observe the various vegetable race;

They neither toil nor spin, but careless grow,

Yet see how warm they blush! how bright they glow.
What regal vestments can with them compare ;
What king so shining, or what queen so fair!

And gaily the trembling bells peal out,
With gentle tongue,

While elves and fairies career about,
'Mid dance and song.

Oh, roses and lilies are fair to see ;

But the wild Blue-bell is the flower for me.

LOUISA ANNE TWAMLEY.

ON A TIME-PIECE.

WITH A FIGURE OF TIME, PLACED NEAR A VASE OF FLOWERS.

O 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.

Some lingering hours, in which may rise
The memory of the buried past;

And I may pour some parting sighs,
O'er hopes, thoughts, joys, for ever past.

They rise no more-those flowers are shed,
Whose early fragrance blest my morn;

They haunt the chambers of the dead,
Like flowers around the funeral urn.

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,
Dost hide beneath the greenwood shade,
Than whom the vernal gale
None fairer wakes on bank or spray,
Our England's lily of the May,
Our Lily of the vale!

Art thou that "Lily of the field,"
Which, when the Saviour sought to shield
The heart from blank despair,

He showed to our mistrustful kind
An emblem of the thoughtful mind
Of God's paternal care?

Not thus, I trow; for brighter shine
To the warm skies of Palestine

Those children of the East:
There, when mild autumn's early rain
Descends on parched Esdrela's plain,

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.