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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
At evening on the western sky,

And melt in misty grey.

The Angel of the flowers one day, Beneath a rose-tree sleeping Jay, 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 pavsed 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?

It was but now thy radiant smile

Broke ubrough the season's gloom, As bending I inbaled awbile

Thy breathing of perfume, And traced on every silken leaf A tale of summer, sweet and brief,

And sudden as thy doom.

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Or mornings, when the wild bee's wing

Shook dew-drops from thy sparkling cell!

In April's bower thy sweets are breathed,

And June beholds thy blossoms fair; In Autumn's chaplet thou art wreathed,

And round December's forehead bare.

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.

And how she veils her flowers when he is

As if she scorned to be looked mpon
By an inferior eye; or did contemn
To wait upon a meaner light than hin :
When this I meditate, methinks, the flowers
Have spirits far more generous than ours,
And give us fair examples, to despise
The servile fawnings and idolatries
Wherewith we court these earthly things

Which merit not the service we bestow. !
But, O my God I though grovelling I appear
Upon the ground, and bave a rooting here,
Which hales me downward, yet in my desire
To that which is above me I aspire ;
And all my best affections I profess
To him that is the Sun of Righteousness.
Oh! keep the morning of his incarnation,
The burning noontide of his bitter passion,
The night of his descending, and the height
Of his ascension,-ever in my sight;
That, imitating him in what I may,
I never follow an inferior way.

T'is 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 l'how happy dost thou seem

'Mid parching heat, 'mid nipping frost : While gathering beauty from each beam,

No bue, 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 Afiction's winter air.


Charmer alike in lordly bower,
And in the hermit's cell she glows;

The Poet's and the Lover's flower,

With drooping bells of clearest blue The bosom's Everlasting Rose!

Thou didst attract my childish view,

Almost resembling
The azure butterflies that flew
Where on the heath thy blossoms grew,

So lightly trembling.

Where feathery fern, and golden broom,

Increase the sand-rock cavern's gloom, When with a serious musing I behold, I've seen thee tangled, The grateful and obsequious marygold, 'Mid tufts of purple heather bloom, How duly, every morning, she displays By vain Arachne's treacherous loom, Her open breast when Phoebus spreads his With dew-drops spangled.

rays; Huw she observes him in his daily walk, Mid ruins tumbling to decay, Still bending tow'rds bim her small slender Thy flowers their heavenly hues display, stalk;

Still freshly springing; How, when he down declines, she droops Where pride and pomp have pass'd away, and mourns,

On mossy tomb and tarret gray, Bedew'd, as 'twere with tears, will he returns ; Like friendship clinging.

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One morning she saw, on the opposite side,
A Fox-glove displaying his colours of pride:
She gazed on his form that in stateliness grew,
And envied his height, and his brilliant hue ;
She mark'd how the flow'rets all gave way before him,
While they press'd ronnd her dwelling with far less decorum :
Dissatisfied, jealous, and peevish she grows,
And the sight of this Fox-glove destroys ber repose.

She tires of her vesture, and swelling with spleen,
Cries, “Ne'er such a dowdy blue mantle was seen!”
Nor keeps to berself any longer her pain,
But thus to a Primrose begins to complain :
“I envy your mood, that can patient abide
“ The respect paid that Fox-glove, his airs and his pride:
“There you sit, still the same, with your colourless cheek;
• But you bave no spirit-would I were as meek.”

The Primrose good-homour'd replied, “ If you knew
« More about him (remember I'm older than you,

And, better instructed, can tell you his tale)
“You'd envy him least of all flowers in the vale :
“With all his fine airs and his dazzling show,
“ No blossom more baneful and odions can blow;
And the reason that flow'rets before him give way
“ ļs because they all hate him and shrink from his sway.

“To stay near him long would be fading or death,
“ For he scatters a pest with his venomous breath ;
" While the flowers that you fancy are crowding you there,
“ Spring round you, delighted your converse to share :
“ His flame-colour'd robe is imposing, 'tis true;
“ Yet, who likes it so well as your mantle of blue ?
~ For we know that of innocence one is the vest,
“ The other the cloak of a treacherous breast.

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