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Pond friends may bend o'er the rais'd turf where I'm laid,
The daisy, primrose, violet, darkly blue,
And polyanthus of nnnumber'd dyes ;
The yellow wall-flower, stained with iron
And lavish stock, that scents the garden 'Mid slopes where th’ evening flock reclines, round: Where glows the golden broom.
From the soft wing of vernal breezes shed,
Anemonies, auriculas, enrich'd When yellow Autumn decks the plain, With shining meal o'er all their velvet The hawthorn's boughs are green,
leaves; Amid the ripening fields of grain,
And full ranunculus of glowing red. In emerald brightness seen.
Then comes the tulip-race, where beauty
plays A night of frost, a day of wind,
Her idle freaks, from family diffus'd Have stript the forest bare:
To family, as flies the father-dust, The hawthorn too that blast shall find, The varied colours run, and while they break Nor shall that spoiling spare.
On the charni'd eye, the exulting fiorist
marks But red with fruit, that hawthorn bongh, With secret pride the wonders of his hand. Tho' leafless yet will shine ;
No gradual bloom is wanting; from the bad The blackbird for its hues shall know, First-born of spring, to sammer's musky As lapwing knows the vine.
Nor hyacinths, of purest virgin white, Be thus thy youth as lilies gay,
Low-bent, and blushing inward: nor jon. Thy manhood vigorous green ;
quils And thus let fruit bedeck thy spray, Of potent fragrance ; nor narcissus fair, Mid age's leafless scene.
As v'er the fabled fountain hanging still;
Infinite numbers, delicacies, smells,
With hues on hues expression cannot paint, THOMSON.
The breath of nature and her endless bloom. But, who can paint Like nature? Can imagination boast Amid its gay creation, hues like hers? Or can it mix them with that matchless skill, And lose them in each other, as appears In ev'ry bud that blows?
THE SNOW-DROP. Along these blushing borders, bright with
MRS. ROBINSON. dew, And in yon mingled wilderness of Aowers, The snow-drop, Winter's timid child, Fair-handed spring unbosoms every grace ;
Awakes to life, bedew'd with tears; Throws out the snow-drop and the crocus And flings around it fragrance mild, first;
And when no rival flowerets bloom
BEAUTIFUL are you in your lowliness;
Bright in your hnes, delicious in your scent ;
Lovely your modest blossoms downward bent,
How gracefully, though mutely eloquent,
Are unobtrusive worth, and meek content,
Delightful flowerets! at the voice of Spring,
And though your blossomis soon shall fade from sight,
The emerald glory of its earth-born light.
THE EARLY PRIMROSE.
New violets' tufts again shall blow,
Then fade away-as thou art fading.
H. K. WHITE.
And be renew'd ; the hope how blest,
(0 may that hope desert me never !) Like thee to sleep on nature's breast,
And wake again, and bloom for ever!
MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire!
Was nursed in whirling storms,
Thee, when young Spring first question'd
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,
Thee on this bank he threw,
To mark his victory. WHEN beecben buds begin to swell,
And woods the blue-birds' warble know, In this low vale, the promise of the year, The yellow violet's modest bell
Serene, thou openest to the pipping gale, Peeps from the last year's leaves below.
Unnoticed and alone,
Thy tender elegance.
So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the To meet thee, when thy faint perfume
storms Alone is in the virgin air.
Of chill adversity; in some lone walk
Of life she rears her head,
Obscure and unobserved ;-
While every bleaching breeze that on her Beside the snow-bank's edges cold.
Chastens her spotless purity of breast, Thy parent sun, who bade thee view
And hardens her to bear Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip,
Serene, the ills of life. Has batheil thee in his own bright hae,
And streaked with jet thy glowing lip.
Fair Flower, that shunn'st the glare of day For who but he who arched the skies, Yet lov'st to open, meekly bold,
And pours the day-spring's living flood, To evening's hues of sober grey,
Wondrous alike in all he tries, Thy cup of paly gold;
Could rear the daisy's purple bud?
Be thine the offering, owing long
Mould its green cup, its wiry stem;
Its fringed border nicely spin ;
That, set in silver, gleams within?
I love to watch at silent eve,
And fling it, unrestrain’d and free,
O'er hill and dale, and desert sod, That man, where'er he walks, may see,
In every step, the stamp of God.
THE DAISY IN INDIA.
The fairy sports of infancy,
Youth's golden age, and manhood's prime, MONTGOMERY
Home, country, kindred, friends,-with
thee, Supposed to be addressed by the Rev. Dr. Carey, one of the Baptist Missionaries at
I find in tbis far clime. Serampore, to the first plant of this kind, which sprung up nnexpectedly in his garden, Thrice welcome, little English flower! out of some English earth, in which other seeds had been conveyed to him from this
I'll rear thee with a trembling hand; country.
With great care and nursing, the Oh, for the April sun and shower, Doctor has been enabled to perpetuate the
The sweet May-dews of that fair land, Daisy in India, as an annual only, raised by seed preserved from season to season.
Where daisies, thick as star-light stand
In every walk !-that here may shoot THRice welcome, little English flower! Thy scions, and thy buds expand, My mother-country's white and red, A hundred from one root. In rose or lily, till this honr, Never to me snch beauty spread:
Thrice welcome, little English flower! Transplanted from thine island-bed, To me the pledge of hope unseen; A treasure in a grain of earth,
When sorrow would my soul o'erpower Strange as a spirit from the dead,
For joys that were, or might have been, Thine embryo sprang to birth.
I'll call to mind, how, fresh and green,
saw thee waking from the dust;
THE MICHAELMAS-DAISY. Nor cease to gaze till daylight dies,
Last smile of the departing year,
Thy pensive wreath is far more dear Where Flora's giant offspring tower,
From blooming thus alone.
Thy tender blush, thy simple frame,
Unnoticed might have passed ; Yet to my British heart more dear
But now thou com'st with softer claim, Than all the torrid zone.
The loveliest and the last.
Thrice welcome, little Englisb flower !
Sweet are the charms in thee we find,
TO THE WALL-FLOWER.
I will not praise the often-flattered rose,
Or virgin-like with blashing charms half seen,
Or when in dazzling splendor like a queen,