THE DAISY IN INDIA. MONTGOMERY. Supposed to be addressed by the Rev. Dr. Carey, one of the Baptist Missionaries at Serampore, to the first plant of this kind, which sprung up unexpectedly in his garden, out of some English earth, in which other seeds had been conveyed to him from this country. With great care and nursing, the Doctor has been enabled to perpetuate the Daisy in India, as an annual only, raised by seed preserved from season to season. THRICE Welcome, little English flower! Thrice welcome, little English flower! Thrice welcome, little English flower, Thrice welcome, little English flower! The fairy sports of infancy, Youth's golden age, and manhood's prime, Home, country, kindred, friends,-with thee, I find in this far clime. Thrice welcome, little English flower! Thrice welcome, little English flower! THE MICHAELMAS-DAISY. ANON. LAST Smile of the departing year, Thy tender blush, thy simple frame, Sweet are the charms in thee we find,- TO THE WALL-FLOWER. ANON. I WILL not praise the often-flattered rose, So frail is the youth, and the beauty of man, Though they bloom, and look gay, like a rose; But all our fond care to preserve them is vain, Time kills them as fast as he goes. Then I'll not be proud of my youth and my beauty, Since both of them wither and fade; But gain a good name by well doing my duty, This will scent like a rose when I'm dead. THE WINTER ROSE. ANON. HAIL, and farewell, thou lovely guest! I may not woo thy stay, The hues that paint thy glowing vest, Are fading fast away, Like the returning tints that die It was but now thy radiant smile Broke through the season's gloom, As bending I inhaled awhile Thy breathing of perfume, And traced on every silken leaf A tale of summer, sweet and brief, And sudden as thy doom. The morning sun thy petals hailed, Alas! on thy forsaken stem My heart shall long recline, And mourn the transitory gem, And make the story mine! So on my joyless winter hour Has oped some fair and fragrant flower, With smile as soft as thine. Like thee the vision came, and went, of fairer climes to tell; So frail its form, so short its stay, THE MOSS-ROSE. FROM THE GERMAN. THE Angel of the flowers one day, Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay, That spirit to whom charge is given To bathe young buds in dews of heaven; Awaking from his light repose, The angel whispered to the rose : "O fondest object of my care "Still fairest found, where all are fair; "For the sweet shade thou givest to me, "Ask what thou wilt 'tis granted thee!" "Then," said the rose, with deepened glow, "On me another grace bestow!"The spirit paused in silent thought, What grace was there that flower had not? 'Twas but a moment-o'er the rose A veil of moss the angel throws, And robed in nature's simplest weed, Could there a flower that rose exceed? THE EVERLASTING-ROSE. ANSTER. HAIL to thy hues! thou lovely flower: Still smile amid the wintry-hour, And boast, ev'n now, a spring-tide bloom. Thine is, methinks, a pleasing dream, Of smiles that hail'd the morning beam, Still are thy green leaves whispering Low sounds to fancy's ear, that tell Of mornings, when the wild bee's wing Shook dew-drops from thy sparkling cell! In April's bower thy sweets are breathed, With thee the graceful lily vied, As summer breezes waved her head, And now the snow-drop at thy side Meekly contrasts thy cheerful red. 'Tis thine to hear each varying voice, That marks the seasons sad or gay; The summer thrush bids thee rejoice, And wintry robin's dearer lay. Sweet flower! how happy dost thou seem 'Mid parching heat, 'mid nipping frost : While gathering beauty from each beam, No hue, no grace of thine is lost! Thus Hope, 'mid life's severest days, Still smiles, still triumphs o'er despair: Alike she lives in Pleasure's rays, And cold Affliction's winter air. Charmer alike in lordly bower, THE MARYGOLD. WITHER. WHEN with a serious musing I behold How she observes him in his daily walk, Still bending tow'rds him her small slender stalk; How, when he down declines, she droops and mourns, Bedew'd, as 'twere with tears, till he returns ; And how she veils her flowers when he is gone, As if she scorned to be looked upon Which merit not the service we bestow. THE HAREBELL. ANON. WITH drooping bells of clearest blue The azure butterflies that flew Where feathery fern, and golden broom, Increase the sand-rock cavern's gloom, I've seen thee tangled, 'Mid tufts of purple heather bloom, By vain Arachne's treacherous loom, With dew-drops spangled. 'Mid ruins tumbling to decay, Like friendship clinging. |