'Tis love, the last best gift of heaven; Love gentle, holy, pure: But tenderer than a dove's soft eye, Even human love will shrink from sight So still and secret is her growth, Where deepest strikes her kindly root God only, and good angels, look As when, triumphant o'er his woes, The Son of God, by moonlight rose, By all but heaven unseen: As when the Holy Maid beheld Thought has not colours half so fair The gracious dove, that brought from heaven Of many a chosen witness telling, So, truest image of the Christ, What time, with sweet forgiving cheer, He could not trust his melting soul Then why should gentle hearts and true No-let the dainty rose awhile Her bashful fragrance hide- THE GARLAND. BY PRIOR. THE pride of every grove I chose, At morn the nymph vouchsafed to place Upon her brow the various wreath; The flowers less blooming than her face, The scent less fragrant than her breath The flowers she wore along the day: And every nymph and shepherd said, That in her hair they look'd more gay Than glowing in their native bed. Undress'd at evening, when she found Their odours lost, their colours past; She changed her look, and on the ground Her garland and her eye she cast. That eye dropp'd sense distinct and clear, As any Muse's tongue could speak, When from its lid a pearly tear Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. Dissembling what I knew too well, She sigh'd: she smiled: and to the flowers Ah me! the blooming pride of May, At dawn poor Stella danced and sung, I saw, and kiss'd her in her shroud. Such as she is, who died to-day, Such I, alas! may be to-morrow; Go, Damon, bid the Muse display The justice of thy Chloe's sorrow. THE FIELD-FLOWER. BY MONTGOMERY. THERE is a flower, a little flower, The prouder beauties of the field In gay but quick succession shine, Race after race their honours yield, They flourish and decline. But this small flower, to nature dear, While moon and stars their courses run, Wreathes the whole circle of the year, Companion of the sun. It smiles upon the lap of May, To sultry August spreads its charms, The purple heath, and golden broom, On moory mountains catch the gale; |