THE IVY GREEN. H! a dainty plant is the ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old! On right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim; And the mouldering dust that years have made, Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. Fast he stealeth on though he wears no wings, And his leaves he gently waves, Creeping where grim death has been, Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, For the statliest building man can raise Creeping on where time has been, TO A DAISY. 'HERE is a flower, a little flower The prouder beauties of the field, But this small flower, to nature dear, The purple heath and golden broom, But this bold floweret climbs the hill, Within the garden's cultured round The lambkin crops its crimson gem; 'Tis Flora's page-in every place, On waste and woodland, rock and plain, JAMES MONTGOMERY. THE CHANGING WORLD. WRITTEN WHILE A PRISONER IN ENGLAND. HE time hath laid his mantle by Of wind and rain and icy chill, And dons a rich embroidery Of sunlight poured on lake and hill. No beast or bird in earth or sky, Whose voice doth not with gladness thrill, For time hath laid his mantle by Of wind and rain and icy chill. River and fountain, brook and rill, Bespangled o'er with livery gay Of silver droplets, wind their way. All in their new apparel vie, For time hath laid his mantle by. CHARLES OF ORLEANS. ON A SPRIG OF HEATH. LOWER of the waste! the heath fowl shuns Thy tender buds supply her food; Their food and shelter seek from thee; Flower of the wild! whose purple glow Nor garden's artful varied pride, With all its wealth of sweets could cheer, And deck his bonnet with the wreath, Looks homeward through the blinding tear, How must his aching heart deplore, That home and thee he sees no more! No, no! the strange, sweet accents Nor the fir-trees whispering low. 'Tis the human love within us That gives them power to thrill ; They touch the links of memory Around our spirits twined, And we start, and weep, and tremble, THE ROSE. 'OW fair is the rose! that beautiful flower, The glory of April and May; But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour, Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast, When its leaves are all dead, and its fine colors lost, So frail is the youth and the beauty of men, Then I'll not be proud of my youth nor my beauty, But gain a good name by well-doing my duty; Many a swan-like song to thee Hath been sung, thou gentle tree; ISAAC WATTS. Many a lute its last lament Down thy moonlight stream hath sent Willow, sighing willow! Therefore, wave and murmur on, Sigh for sweet affections gone, And for tuneful voices fled, And for love, whose heart hath bled, Ever, willow, willow! FELICIA DOROTHEA HEmans. THE WANDERING WIND. HE wind, the wandering wind Of the golden summer eves— Or from the long, tall grass? Or is it from the voices Of all in one combined, That it wins the tone of mastery! MAY DAY. HE daisies peep from every field, Let lusty labor drop his flail, Behold the lark in ether float, While rapture swells the liquid note! What warbles he, with merry cheer? "Let love and pleasure rule the year!" Lo! Sol looks down with radiant eye, And throws a smile around his sky; Embracing hill, and vale, and stream, And warming nature with his beam. The insect tribes in myraids pour, And kiss with zephyr every flower; Shall these our icy hearts reprove, And tell us what are foes to love? Then lads and lasses all, be gay, For this is nature's holiday. JOHN WOLCOT. TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. 'HY fruit full well the schoolboy knows, So put thou forth thy small white rose; Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow For dull the eye, the heart is dull, That cannot feel how fair, Amid all beauty beautiful, Thy tender blossoms are! How delicate thy gauzy frill! How rich thy branchy stem! How soft thy voice when woods are still, A sweet air lifts the little bough, Lone whispering through the bush! But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring, The fresh green days of life's fair spring, To gad with thee the woodlands o'er, a EBENEZER ELLIOTT. A DAY IN JUNE. ND what is so rare as a day in June? An instinct within it that reaches and towers Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, With the deluge of summer it receives; THE PRIMEVAL FOREST. HIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and pro phetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep voiced neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman? HENRY WADSworth Longfellow. TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. ILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire! Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Was nursed in whirling storms. And cradled in the winds. Thee, when young spring first questioned winter's sway To mark his victory. In this low vale, the promise of the year, Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, Unnoticed and alone, Thy tender elegance. So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of life she rears her head, While every bleaching breeze that on her blows, And hardens her to bear HARRY KIRke White. THE LILY. 'OW withered, perished seems the form Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales, And nature bid her blossoms bloom. And thou, O virgin queen of spring! Shalt, from thy dark and lowly bed, Bursting thy green sheath's silken string, Unveil thy charms and perfume shed; a Unfold thy robes of purest white, Unsullied from their darksome grave, And thy soft petals' silvery light In the mild breeze unfettered wave. So faith shall seek the lowly dust Where humble sorrow loves to lie, And bid her thus her hopes intrust, And watch with patient, cheerful eye; And bear the long, cold wintry night, And bear her own degraded doom; And wait till heaven's reviving light, Eternal spring! shall burst the gloom. MARY TIGHE THE BRAVE OLD OAK. SONG to the oak, the brave old oak, Who hath ruled in the greenwood long; Here's health and renown to his broad green crown, And his fifty arms so strong. There's fear in his frown when the sun goes down, And he showeth his might on a wild midnight, Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak, In the days of old, when the spring with cold Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet, And on that day to the rebeck gay They frolicked with lovesome swains; They are gone, they are dead, in the churchyard laid, He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes When the squire's wide hall and the cottage small And a ruthless king is he; But he never shall send our ancient friend HENRY FOTHergill Chorley. THE CLOUD. BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, I bear light shade for the leaves when laid From my wings are shaken the dews that waken When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, I wield the flail of the lashing hail, While I sleep in the arms of the blast. Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers, Lightning, my pilot, sits; In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, It struggles and howls at fits; Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, This pilot is guiding me, Lured by the love of the genii that move Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack When the morning star shines dead, As on the jag of a mountain crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit, one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings; And when sunset may breathe from the lit sea beneath, Its ardors of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, That orbed maiden with white fire laden, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, The stars peep behind her and peer ; And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, I bind the sun's throng with a burning zone, The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march, When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, The sphere-fire above, its soft colors wove, I am the daughter of the earth and water, I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores · For after the rain, when, with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I rise and upbuild it again. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. COME TO THESE SCENES OF PEACE. OME to these scenes of peace, Where, to rivers murmuring, The sweet birds all the summer sing, Does thy wounded spirit prove Pangs of hopeless severed love? Thee, the birds that carol near Shall soothe, as silent thou dost lie SONG OF THE SUMMER WINDS. OWN the glen, across the mountain, On our weary wings we hie. GEORGE DARLEY. |