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The Lilies of the Field.

FLOWERS! when the Saviour's calm benignant eye.
Fell on your gentle beauty-when from you
That heavenly lesson for all hearts he drew,
Eternal, universal, as the sky-

Then, in the bosom of your purity,

A voice he set as in a temple-shrine,
That life's quick travellers ne'er might pass you by
Unwarn'd of that sweet oracle divine.

And though too oft its low, celestial sound
By the harsh notes of work-day Care is drown'd,
And the loud steps of vain, unlistening Haste :
Yet the great ocean hath no tone of power
Mightier to reach the soul in thought's hush'd hour,
Than your's, ye lilies !-chosen thus and graced!
MRS. HEMANS.

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But to the even-song;

And, having pray'd together,
We will go with you along.

We have short time to stay as you,
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay
As you or any thing.

We die

As your hours do, and dry

Away,

Like to the summer's rain;

Or as the pearls of morning dew,

Ne'er to be found again.

HERRICK.

The Daffodils.

1 I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky-way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay ;
Ten thousand saw I at a glance
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay

In such a jocund company!

I gazed and gazed-but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

WORDSWORTH.

To the Blue Anemone.

FLOWER! the laurel still may shed
Brightness round the victor's head;
And the rose, in beauty's hair,
Still its festal glory wear;

And the willow-leaves droop o'er
Brows which love sustains no more:

But by living rays refined,

Thou, the trembler of the wind,

Thou, the spiritual flower,

Sentient of each breeze and shower,
Thou, rejoicing in the skies,

And transpierced with all their dyes;
Breathing vase, with light o'erflowing,
Gem-like to thy centre glowing,
Thou, the poet's type shalt be,
Flower of soul, Anemone !

MRS. HEMANS.

Trees.

I.

No tree in all the grove but has its charms,
Though each its hue peculiar; paler some,
And of a wannish grey; the willow such,
And poplar, that with silver lines his leaf;
And ash, far stretching his umbrageous arm.
Of deeper green the elm, and deeper still,
Lord of the woods, the long-surviving oak.
Some glossy-leaved, and shining in the sun;
The maple and the beech, of oily nuts
Prolific; and the lime, at dewy eve
Diffusing odours; nor unnoted pass
The sycamore, capricious in attire,

Now green, now tawny, and, ere autumn yet
Have changed the woods, in scarlet honours bright.

CowPER.

II.

AND forth they pass, with pleasure forward led,
Joying to hear the sweet birds' harmony,
Which, therein shrouded from the tempest dread,
Seem'd in their song to scorn the cruel sky;
Much can they praise, the trees so straight and high,
The sailing pine, the cedar proud and tall,
The vine-prop elm, the poplar never dry,
The builder oak, sole king of forests all;

The aspen, good for staves, the cypress, funeral.
The laurel, meed of mighty conquerors,
And poets sage; the fir, that weepeth still;
The willow, worn of forlorn paramours ;

The yew,
obedient to the bender's will;
The birch for shafts, the sallow for the mill;
The warlike beech, the ash for nothing ill,
The fruitful olive, and the platane round,

The carver holm, the maple, seldom inward sound.

SPENSER.

III.

TREES, gracious trees!-how rich a gift ye are !
Crown of the earth to human hearts and eyes!
How doth the thought of home, in lands afar,
Link'd with your forms, and kindly whisperings rise!
How the whole picture of a childhood lies,

Oft midst your boughs forgotten, buried deep!
Till, gazing through them up the summer skies,
As hush'd we stand, a breeze perchance may creep,
And old, sweet leaf-sounds reach the inner world
Where memory coils-and lo! at once unfurl'd
The past, a glowing scroll, before our sight
Spreads clear; while, gushing from their long-seal'd urn,
Young thoughts, pure dreams, undoubting prayers return,
And a lost mother's eye gives back its holy light.

MRS. HEMANS.

Orchard Blossoms.

DOTH thy heart stir within thee at the sight
Of orchard-blooms upon the mossy bough?
Doth their sweet household-smile waft back the glow
Of childhood's morn-the wondering, fresh delight
In earth's new colouring, then all strangely bright,
A joy of fairy-land? Doth some old nook,
Haunted by visions of thy first-loved book,
Rise on thy soul, with faint-streak'd blossoms white
Shower'd o'er the turf, and the lone primrose knot,
And robin's nest, still faithful to the spot,
And the bee's dreary chime? O gentle friend!
The world's cold breath, not Time's, this life bereaves
Of vernal gifts; Time hallows what he leaves,
And will for us endear spring memories to the end.

MRS. HEMANS.

C

To Blossoms.

FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do ye fall so fast?
Your date is not so past,

But you may stay yet here a while

To blush and gently smile,

And go at last.

What, were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good-night?
"Twas pity Nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,

And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave;
And after they have shown their pride
Like you, a while, they glide

Into the grave.

HERRICK.

Foliage.

COME forth, and let us through our hearts receive
The joy of verdure. See! the honey'd lime
Showers cool green light o'er banks where wild-flowers weave
Thick tapestry, and woodbine tendrils climb

Up the brown oak, from buds of moss and thyme.

The rich deep masses of the sycamore

Hang heavy with the fulness of their prime;

And the white poplar, from its foliage hoar,

Scatters forth gleams like moonlight, with each gale

That sweeps the boughs; the chestnut-flowers are past,
The crowning glories of the hawthorn fail,

But arches of sweet eglantine are cast

From every hedge. Oh! never may we lose,

Dear friend! our fresh delight in simplest Nature's hues.

MRS. HEMANS.

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