« ПредишнаНапред »
THE DIAL OF FLOWERS.* When shepherds gather'd their flocks of old,
By the blue Arcadian streams.
So in those isles of delight, that rest 'Twas a lovely thought to mark the hoars
Far off in a breezeless main, As they floated in light away,
Which many a bark with a weary guest, By the opening and the folding flowers
Hath sought but still in vain. That laugh to the summer's day.
Yet is not life, in its real flight,
Mark'd thus-even thus-on earth,
And another's gentle birth?
Oh! let us live, so that flower by flower, To such sweet signs might the time have
Shutting in turn, may leave flow'd
A lingerer still for the sun-set hour,
A charm for the shaded eve.
* This dial is said to have been formeil by
Linnæus. It marked the hours by the openSo might the days have been brightly told- ing and closing at regular intervals, of the Those days of song and dreams
flowers arranged in it.
THE PET- PLANT.
A FLORIST a sweet little blossom espied,
Under a hedge."
He carried it home to his hot-house with care,
Under a hedge.”
And tossed its small head, for perceiving that done
Under a hedge.
In the bye-ways of life, oh ! how many there are,
Under a hedge.
H. I. JOHNS.
The wintry blast that strips the tree,
Nar-do not wantonly destroy
The beams of April, ere it goes,
worm, scarce visible disclose ;
Go, busy trifler! sport thine hour, Brief, though it be, as summer-flower!
TO A BUTTERFLY.
Written on a Sabbath-morning.
On thy beds of clover playing,
Pretty insect, why so gay?
'Tis to thee no sabbath day.
For, his dimensions once complete,
Giddy trifler of an hour!
Days to thee are all the same;
Mindful only of thy game.
And thou dos: well--for never sorrow
Sat upon thy golden brow;
Gather'd in thy breast of snow.
Thon bast not sigh'd at evening's closing,
For bopes that left thee on its wing; Thou bast not wept at day's returning, With thought of what that day might
Nor ever voice of truth neglected
Breathed reproaches in thine ear,
Nor secret pang of conscious error
Spake of retribution near.
Play thy game thon spotless worm!
Thou wilt perish ere to-morrow.
How unlike in all beside!
Then the world was all of flowers,
Thornless as thy clover bed.
Then my folly ask'd no question, Yet wast thou once a reptile in the mire What might be when these were dead. Unsightly : having slumbered in thy cell, Transform'd and drunk with thoughts that Had not mercy's sterner pity bliss inspire,
Bent its chastening rod on me, Thou camest forth :-and I shall break the Dancing still the round of pleasure, shell
I had died-but not like thee.
Talent wasted and misused,
Earth adored, and heaven forgotten, In thy proud change we see the germ
Of man's sublimer destiny,
While holiest oracles confirm Torn from earth, unmeet for heaven, The type of immortality.
I had learn'd to envy theeDoom'd to live as I had perished
A change more glorious far than thine,
E'en I thy fellow-worm may know,
Of being's embryo state shall seem
Like phantoms fitting to and fro
In some confus'd and feverish dream. Moments uncounted watching thee,
For thee, who fittest gaily now, Now fitting round the foliage green
With all thy nature asks--supplied, Of yonder dark, embowering tree;
A few brief summer days, and thou And now again in frolic glee,
No more amid those haunts shall glide, Hov'ring around those opening flowers,
As Hope's fair herald-in tby pride, Happy as nature's child should be,
The sylph-like genius of the scene, Born to enjoy her loveliest bowers.
But, sunk in dark oblivion's tide, And I have gazed upon thy flight,
Shalt be-as thou badst never been ! Till feelings I can scarce define,
While man's immortal part, when Time Awaken'd by so fair a sight,
Shall set the chainless spirit free,
May seek a brighter, happier clime
Than Fancy e'er could feign for thee : Or énvy thee thy happiness;
Though bright ber fairy bowers may be, But from a lot so bright as thine
Yet brief as bright their beauties fade, To borrow musings born to bless.
And sad Experience mourns to see
Each gourd Hope trusted in-decay'd.
But in those regions, calm and pure,
To which our holiest wishes cling,
Joys, that eternally endure,
There seraph harps of golden string, And still delighteth to supply
Are vocal to the great I AM, With happiness the life He gives.
And souls redeem'd their anthems sing This truth may boast but little worth,
Of grateful praises to The LAMB! Enforc'd by rhet'ric's frigid powers ;
Shall they who here anticipate, But when it has its quiet birth
Through Faith's strong vision, eagle-eyed, In contemplation's silent hours ;
Those joys immortal that await When summer's brightly peopled bowers
Angelic spirits purified, Bring home its teachings to the heart ;
Shall such, however deeply tried, Tben birds and insects, shrubs and flowers,
E'er cast their glorious hopes away? Its touching eloquence impart.
Oh! be those hopes their heavenward guide,
Their stedfast anchor, and their stay.
Though many a fluwer that sweetly deck'd Of hopes that own no mortal term;
Life's early path, but bloom'd to fade: