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'Tis love, the last best gift of heaven; Love gentle, holy, pure:

But tenderer than a dove's soft eye,
The searching sun, the open sky,
She never could endure.

Even human love will shrink from sight
Here in the coarse rude earth:
How then should rash intruding glance
Break in upon her sacred trance
Who boasts a heavenly birth?

So still and secret is her growth,
Ever the truest heart,

Where deepest strikes her kindly root
For hope or joy, for flower or fruit,
Least known its happy part.

God only, and good angels, look
Behind the blissful screen-

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
Her risen Son and Lord:

Thought has not colours half so fair
That she to paint that hour may dare,
In silence best adored.

The gracious dove, that brought from heaven
The earnest of our bliss,

Of many a chosen witness telling,
On many a happy vision dwelling,
Sings not a note of this.

So, truest image of the Christ,
Old Israel's long-lost Son,

What time, with sweet forgiving cheer,
He call'd his conscious brethren near,
Would weep with them alone.

He could not trust his melting soul
But in his Maker's sight-

Then why should gentle hearts and true
Bare to the rude world's withering view
Their treasures of delight?

No-let the dainty rose awhile

Her bashful fragrance hide-
Rend not her silken veil too soon,
But leave her, in her own soft noon,
To flourish and abide.

THE GARLAND.

BY PRIOR.

THE pride of every grove I chose,
The violet sweet, the lily fair,
The dappled pink and blushing rose,
To deck my charming Chloe's hair.

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,
My love, my life, said I, explain
This change of humour: pr'ythee tell:
That falling tear-what does it mean?

She sigh'd: she smiled: and to the flowers
Pointing, the lovely moralist said-
See, friend, in some few fleeting hours,
See yonder, what a change is made.

Ah me! the blooming pride of May,
And that of beauty, are but one:
At morn both flourish bright and gay;
Both fade at evening, pale, and gone.

At dawn poor Stella danced and sung,
The amorous youth around her bow'd:
At night her fatal knell was rung;

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,
With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.

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,
Lights pale October on his way,
And twines December's arms.

The purple heath, and golden broom,

On moory mountains catch the gale;
O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume,
The violet in the vale;

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