The heart and fancy, as pellucid wave Of fount or river Flings back more bright what bright doth on it fall, And its own radiance lends where else were none at all. SONNET. BY SPENSER. SWEET is the Rose, but growes upon a brere; Sweet is the Juniper, but sharpe his bough; Sweet is the Eglantine, but pricketh nere; Sweet is the Firbloom, but his branches rough, Sweet is the Cypress, but his rind is tough, Sweet is the Nut, but bitter is his pill; Sweet is the Broome-flowere, but yet sowre enough; And sweet is Moly, but his roote is ill. THE FLOWER-DIAL. BY MRS. HEMANS. 'Twas a lovely thought to mark the hours, Thus had each moment its own rich hue, In whose colour'd vase might sleep the dew, To such sweet signs might the time have flow'd Ere from the garden, man's first abode, The glorious guests were gone. So might the days have been brightly told- So in those isles of delight, that rest Far off in a breezeless main, Which many a bark, with a weary quest, Yet is not life, in its real flight, Mark'd thus-even thus-on earth, By the closing of one hope's delight, And another's gentle birth? Oh! let us live so that flower by flower, A lingerer still for the sunset hour, SPRING FLOWERS. BY SHAKSPEARE. Daffodils That come before the swallow dares, and take Bold oxlips, and BOWING ADORERS. BY CLARE. BOWING adorers of the gale, Unfold your cups in splendour, speak! Violets, sweet tenants of the shade, Your errand here fulfil; Go bid the artist's simple strain And match your Maker's skill. Daisies, ye flowers of lowly birth. Open to Spring's refreshing air, FRAGMENT. BY COWPER. SOME clothe the soil that feeds them, far diffused TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH. BY BURNS. WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flower, To spare thee now is past my power, |