NIGHT-BLOWING FLOWERS. BY MRS. HEMANS. CHILDREN of night! unfolding meekly, slowly, To the sweet breathings of the shadowy hours, When dark-blue heavens look softest and most holy, And glow-worm light is in the forest bowers; To spirit-haunted sleep, O dedicated flowers! Ye, from the gaze of crowds your beauty veiling, Keep in dim vestal urns the sweetness shrined; Till the mild moon, on high serenely sailing, Looks on you tenderly, and sadly kind. -So doth love's dreaming heart . Dwell from the throng apart, And but to shades disclose The inmost thought which glows, Shut from the sounds wherein the day rejoices, So doth lone prayer arise, THE VIOLET. DY SIR WALTER SCOTT. THE Violet in her green-wood bower, May boast itself 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, Nor longer in my false love's eye, Remain' the tear of parting sorrow. TO A LITTLE WILD FLOWER. BY LUCY HOOPER. I WISH I was this simple flower, I wish I was as low and small, I wish that I was guarded so, From every cruel storm Mark how each taller plant doth throw A shelter round its form. And see ye not this little flower Can fold its petal bright, When storms do rise, or clouds do lower, Or draweth on the night. It only lifts its meek bright eye, Through summer days and spring, It gazes ever on the sky; Oh! 'tis a happy thing! I wish that I could change my form, Live wild and happy, though not long, Or still more blest be pluck'd to cheer TO THE HERB ROSEMARY. BY HENRY KIRKE WHITE. SWEET-SCENTED flower! wont to bloom On January's front severe, And o'er the wintry desert drear To waft thy waste perfume! Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, And as I twine the mournful wreath, I'll weave a melancholy song; And sweet the strain shall be, and long, The melody of death! Come, funeral flower! who lovest to dwell With the pale corse in lonely tomb, And throw across the desert gloom A sweet decaying smell! Come, press my lips, and lie with me And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, So peaceful and so deep. And hark! the wind-god as he flies And, sailing on the gusty breeze, Sweet flower, that requiem wild is mine, The cold turf-altar of the dead: My grave shall be in yon lone spot, A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. |