And musing by love's haunted rill, To see how sweetly heaven still, Is mirror'd on its breast, THE ALPINE FLOWERS. BY MRS. SIGOURNEY. MEEK dwellers 'mid yon terror-stricken cliffs! senger On Mercy's missions trust your timid germ -Tree nor shrub Dare that drear atmosphere: no polar pine O'er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the verge Of yawning gulfs, o'er which the headlong plunge And marks ye in your placid loveliness- THE MISTLETOE. BY BARRY CORNWALL WHEN winter nights grow long, We sit in a ring round the warm wood-fire, And we try to look grave (as maids should be,) The Poets have laurels-and why not we? How pleasant, when night falls down, To see them come in to the blazing fire, While many bring in, with a laugh or rhyme, It tells (like a tongue) that the times are jolly! Sometimes-in our grave-house, Observe, this happeneth not; But, at times, the evergreen laurel boughs And then! what then? why, the men laugh low, And hang up a branch of-the Mistletoe! Oh, brave is the Laurel! and brave is the Holly! Ah, nobody knows, nor ever shall know 11 TO THE PRIMROSE. BY BIDLAKE. PALE visitant of balmy spring, Joy of the new-born year, That bidd'st young hope new-plume his wing, Soon as thy buds appear: While o'er the incense-breathing sky The tepid hours first dare to fly, And vainly woo the chilling breeze That, bred in winter's frozen lap, Remote from towns, thy transient life Coy rustic thou art blooming found Sweet neighbour of the chanter ril!; Or, on the dingle's shadowy steep, From wealth and ostentatious pride, With many an emblematic thorn, Thy humbler mien well pleased to meet ; Like competence in blest retreat, Thy smiles the spring adorn. What though thou boast no splendid hue To me more fair art thou to view, Where all the modest virtues play ; With mild and temper'd ray. Yet treasures lurk within thy lips Or wanton vagrancy. Ah! blest is he who temperance tries, |