Alas! it's no thy neebour sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet!
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet!
Wi' speckled breast,

When upward springing, blithe, to greet
The purplin' east.

Cauld blew the bitter biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth:
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,

Scarce rear'd above the parent earth,
Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield;
But thou, beneath the random bield

O' clod or stane,

Adorns the histie stibble-field,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snowy bosom sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,

Sweet floweret of the rural shade'

By love's simplicity betray'd,

And guileless trust;

Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid
Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is given,
Who long with wants and woes has striven
By human pride or cunning driven

To misery's brink,

Till, wrench'd of every stay but heaven, He ruin'd sink!

E'en thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine-no distant date;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate,
Full on thy bloom,

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,

Shall be thy doom!

THE BROKEN FLOWER.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

OH! wear it on thy heart, my love!
Still, still a little while!

Sweetness is lingering in its leaves,
Though faded be their smile.
Yet, for the sake of what hath been,
Oh! cast it not away!

'Twas born to grace a summer scene,

A long, bright, golden day,

My love,

A long, bright, golden day!

A little while around thee, love!

Its fragrance yet shall cling, Telling that on thy heart hath lain,

A fair, though faded thing.

But not even that warm heart hath power To win it back from fate:

Oh! I am like thy broken flower,

Cherish'd too late, too late,

My love'

Cherish'd, alas! too inte

TO THE SUNFLOWER.

PRIDE of the garden, the beauteous, the regai, The crown'd with a diadem burning in gold; Sultan of flowers, as the strong-pinion'd eagle And lord of the forest their wide empire hold.

Let the Rose boast her fragrance, the soft gales perfuming,

The Tulip unfold all her fair hues to me: Yet though sweet be their perfume, their rainbow dyes blooming,

I turn, noble Sunflower, with more love to thee.

There are some think thy stateliness haughty, disdaining,

Thy heaven-seeking gaze has no charm for their eyes;

'Tis because the pure spirit within thee that's reigning

Exalts thee above the vain pleasures they prize.

Emblem of constancy, whilst he is beaming,
For whom is thy passion so steadfast, so true;
May we,
who of faith and of love are aye dreaming,
Be taught to remember this lesson by you!

If on earth, like the Sunflower, our soul's best

devotion

Shall turn to the source of Truth's far-beaming

rays;

O how blest, how triumphant, shall be our

emotion,

6

When the bright Sun of Righteousness' bursts on our gaze.

THE ROSE AND THE GAUNTLET.

BY JOHN STERLING.

Low spake the Knight to the peasant girl,
"I tell thee sooth-I am belted Earl;
Fly with me from this garden small,

And thou shall sit in my castle's hall.

"Thou shalt have pomp, and wealth, and pleasure,

Joys beyond thy fancy's measure;

Here with my sword and horse I stand,
To bear thee away to my distant land.

"Take, thou fairest! this full-blown rose,
A token of Love that as ripely blows."
With his glove of steel he plucked the token,
But it fell from his gauntlet crushed and broken.