Should beauty's soul-enchanting smile, Love-kindling looks and features gay, Should these thy wandering eye beguile, And steal thy wareless heart away; That heart shall soon with sorrow swell, And soon the erring eye deplore, If in the beauteous bosom dwell No gentle virtue's genial store. Far from his hive one summer-day, A young and yet unpractis'd bee, Borne on his tender wings away,
Went forth the flowery world to see. The morn, the noon, in play he pass'd, But when the shades of evening came, No parent brought the due repast, And faintness seiz'd his little frame.
By nature urg'd, by instinct led,
The bosom of a flower he sought, Where streams mourn'd round a mossy bed, And Violets all the bank enwrought.
Of kindred race, but brighter dies, On that fair bank a Pansy grew, That borrow'd from indulgent skies A velvet shade and purple hue.
The tints that stream'd with glossy gold, The velvet shade, the purple hue,
The stranger wonder'd to behold, And to its beauteous bosom flew.
Not fonder haste the lover speeds, At evening's fall his fair to meet, When o'er the hardly-bending meads He springs on more than mortal feet.
Nor glows his eyes with brighter glee, When stealing near her orient breast; Than felt the fond enamour'd bee,
When first the golden bloom he prest. Ah! pity much his youth untried, His heart in beauty's magic spell! So never passion thee betide,
But where the genial virtues dwell. In vain he seeks those virtues there; No soul-sustaining charms abound: No honey'd sweetness to repair
The languid waste of life is found.
An aged bee, whose labours led
Through those fair springs, and meads of gold, His feeble wing, his drooping head Beheld, and pitied to behold.
6 Fly, fond adventurer, fly the art
That courts thine eye with fair attire ; Who smiles to win the heedless heart, Will smile to see that heart expire.
This modest flower of humbler hue, That boasts no depth of glowing dies, Array'd in unbespangled blue,
The simple clothing of the skies
This flower, with balmy sweetness blest, May yet thy languid life renew:'- He said, and to the Violet's breast The little vagrant faintly flew.
'Then may each justly vengeful flower Pursue her Queen with generous strife, Nor leave the hand of lawless power Such compass on the scale of life. 'One simple virtue all my pride! The wish that flies to misery's aid;
The balm that stops the crimson tide,* And heals the wounds that war has made.”
Their free consent by zephyrs borne,
The flowers their Meadow's Queen obey; And fairer blushes crown'd the morn, And sweeter fragrance fill'd the day.
THE WALL-FLOWER.
'WHY loves my flower, the sweetest flower That swells the golden breast of May, Thrown rudely o'er this ruin'd tower, To waste her solitary day?
'Why, when the mead, the spicy vale, The grove and genial garden call, Will she her fragrant soul exhale, Unheeded on the lonely wall? For never sure was beauty born To live in Death's deserted shade! Come, lovely flower, my banks adorn,
My banks for life and beauty made.' Thus Pity wak'd the tender thought, And by her sweet persuasion led, To seize the hermit-flower I sought, And bear her from her stony bed.
* The property of that flower.
I sought-but sudden on mine ear A voice in hollow murmurs broke, And smote my heart with holy fear- The Genius of the Ruin spoke. 'From thee be far the' ungentle deed, The honours of the dead to spoil, Or take the sole remaining meed,
The flower that crowns their former toil! 'Nor deem that flower the garden's foe, Or fond to grace this barren shade; 'Tis Nature tells her to bestow
Her honours on the lonely dead.
'For this, obedient zephyrs bear
Her light seeds round yon turret's mold, And undispers'd by tempests there They rise in vegetable gold.
'Nor shall thy wonder wake to see
Such desart-scenes distinction crave; Oft have they been, and oft shall be Truth's, Honour's, Valour's, Beauty's grave. 'Where longs to fall that rifted spire, As weary of the' in sulting air; The poet's thought, the warrior's fire, The lover's sighs are sleeping there. 'When that too shakes the trembling ground, Borne down by some tempestuous sky, And many a slumbering cottage round Startles how still their hearts will lie; 'Of them who, wrapt in earth so cold, No more the smiling day shall view, Should many a tender tale be told;
For many a tender thought is due. VOL. XXX. M
Hast thou not seen some lover pale, When Evening brought the pensive hour, Step slowly oe'r the shadowy vale,
And stop to pluck the frequent flower? Those flowers he surely meant to strew On lost Affection's lowly cell; Though there, as fond remembrance grew, Forgotten, from his hand they fell. 'Has not for thee the fragrant thorn Been taught her first rose to resign? With vain but pious fondness borne To deck thy Nancy's honour'd shrine! 'Tis Nature pleading in the breast, Fair memory of her works to find; And when to fate she yields the rest, She claims the monumental mind. Why, else, the o'ergrown paths of Time Would thus the letter'd sage explore, With pain these crumbling ruins climb, And on the doubtful sculpture pore? 'Why seeks he with unwearied toil Through Death's dim walks to urge his way, Reclaim his long-asserted spoil,
And lead Oblivion into day?
'Tis Nature prompts, by toil or fear
Unmov'd, to range through Death's domain
The tender parent loves to hear
Her children's story told again.
Treat not with scorn his thoughtful hours, If haply near these haunts he stray; Nor take the fair enlivening flowers That bloom to cheer his lonely way?
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