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THE LILY AND THE ROSE.

BY COWPER.

THE nymph must lose her female friend
If more admired than she-
But where will fierce contention end,
If flowers can disagree?

Within the garden's peaceful scene
Appear'd two lovely foes,
Aspiring to the rank of queen,
The Lily and the Rose.

The Rose soon redden'd into rage,
And swelling with disdain,
Appeal'd to many a poet's page
To prove her right to reign.

The Lily's height bespoke command, A fair imperial flower;

She seem'd design'd for Flora's hand, The sceptre of her power.

This civil bickering and debate

The goddess chanced to hear; And flew to save, ere yet too late, The pride of the parterre.

"Yours is," she said, "the noblest hue,

And yours the statelier mien; And, till a third surpasses you,

Let each be deem'd a queen.'

Thus soothed and reconciled, both seek

The fairest British fair;

The seat of empire is her cheek,
They reign united there.

THE VIOLET.

BY SCOTT.

THE Violet in her greenwood bower,
Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle,

May boast herself the fairest flower,
In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.

Though fair her gems of azure hue,

Beneath the dew-drop's weight reclining,

I've seen an eye of lovelier blue,

More sweet through watery lustre shining.

The summer sun that dew shall dry,
Ere yet the day be past its morrow;
No longer in my false love's eye
Remain'd the tear of parting sorrow.

THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS.

BEAR them not from grassy dells,
Where wild bees have honey-cells,
Not from where sweet water-sounds
Thrill the greenwood to its bounds;
Not to waste their scented breath
On the silent room of Death!

Kindred to the breeze they are,
And the glow-worm's emerald star,
And the bird, whose song is free,
And the many-whispering tree:
Oh! too deep a love, and fain,
They would win to earth again.

Spread them not before the eyes,
Closing fast on summer skies!
Woo thou not the spirit back,
From its lone and viewless track,
With the bright things which have birth
Wide o'er all the colour'd earth!

With the violet's breath would rise
Thoughts too sad for her who dies;
From the lily's pearl-cup shed,

Dreams too sweet would haunt her bed;
Dreams of youth-of spring-time eves-
Music-beauty-all she leaves!

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Hush! 'tis thou that dreaming art,
Calmer is her gentle heart.

Yes! o'er fountain, vale, and grove,
Leaf and flower, hath gush'd her love;
But that passion, deep and true,
Knows not of a last adieu.

Types of lovelier forms than these,
In their fragile mould she sees;
Shadows of yet richer things,
Born beside immortal springs,
Into fuller glory wrought,
Kindled by surpassing thought!

Therefore in the lily's leaf

She can read no word of grief;
O'er the woodbine she can dwell,
Murmuring not-Farewell! farewell!
And her dim yet speaking eye,
Greets the violet solemnly.

Therefore, once, and yet again,
Strew them o'er her bed of pain;
From her chamber take the gloom,
With a light and flush of bloom:
So should one depart, who goes
Where no death can touch the rose!

12

THE NIGHT-SHADE.

BY BARRY CORNWALL.

TREAD aside from my starry bloom!
I am the nurse who feed the tomb
(The tomb, my child)

With dainties piled,

Until it grows strong as a tempest wild.

Trample not on a virgin flower!
I am the maid of the midnight hour;
I bear sweet sleep

To those who weep,

And lie on their eyelids dark and deep.

Tread not thou on my snaky eyes!
I am the worm that the weary prize,
The Nile's soft asp,

That they strive to grasp,

And one that a queen has loved to clasp!

Pity me! I am she whom man

Hath hated since ever the world began;

I soothe his brain,

In the night of pain,

But at morning he waketh-and all is vain!

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