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50 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the
shrub the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all
the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that
lately sprung and stood, In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sister
Alas! they all are in their graves ; the gentle race
of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and
good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie,—but the cold
November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely
The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long
ago, And the wild rose and the orchis died amid the
summer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in
the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn
beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as
falls the plague on men; And the brightness of their smile was gone from
upland glade and glen.
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.
And now when comes the calm mild day, as still
such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their
winter home, When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though
all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the
rill,The south wind searches for the flowers whose
fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the
stream no more.
And then I think of one who in her youthful
beauty died, The fe vir meek blossom that grew up and faded by
my side; In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest
ast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life
$5brief; Yet not inmeet it was that one, like that young
end of ours, d'id so beautiful, should perish with the
So gentle keepisers.
THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND. Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn! Thy sons, for valour long renown'd, Lie slaughter'd on their native ground; Thy hospitable roofs no more Invite the stranger to the door ; In smoky ruins see them lie, The monuments of cruelty. The wretched owner sees afar His all become the prey of war; Bethinks him of his babes and wife, Then smites his breast and curses life. Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks, Where once they fed their wanton flocks ; Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain ; Thy infants perish on the plain. What boots it, then, in every clime, Through the wide-spreading waste of time, Thy martial glory, crown’d with praise, Still shone with undiminish'd blaze? Thy tow'ring spirit now is broke, Thy neck is bended to the yoke. What foreign arms could never quell, By civil rage and rancour fell. The rural pipe and merry lay No more shall cheer the happy day;
THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND.
O baneful cause, O fatal morn,
The pious mother doom'd to death
While the warm blood bedews my veins,
NEW YEAR'S DAY.
NEW YEAR'S DAY. Rise, sons of merry England, from mountain and
from plain, Let each light up his spirit, let none unmoved
remain ; The morning is before you, and glorious is the
sun; Rise up, and do your blessed work before the day
be done. “ Come help us, come and help us,”—from the
valley and the hill To the ear of God in heaven are the cries ascend
ing still : The soul that wanteth knowledge, the flesh that
wanteth food; Arise, ye sons of England, go about doing good. Your hundreds and your thousands at usage and
in purse, Bebold a safe investment, which shall bless and
never curse! Oh, who would spend for house or land, if he
might but from above Draw down the sweet and holy dew of happiness