Ere a leaf is on a bush, In the time before the thrush Comfort have thou of thy merit, Careless of thy neighbourhood, Ill befall the yellow flowers, Others, too, of lofty mien ; They have done as worldlings do, Taken praise that should be thine, Prophet of delight and mirth, Serving at my heart's command, THE IVY. BARTON. HAST thou seen, in winter's stormiest day, Not dead, but sinking in slow decay Beneath time's resistless stroke, Round which a luxuriant ivy had grown, Perchance thou hast seen this sight, and then, Pass'd carelessly by, nor turn'd again That scathed wreck to view. But now I can draw from that mouldering tree O smile not! nor think it a worthless thing, Is alone worth a serious thought! THE VIOLET. FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE. A VIOLET blossom'd on the green, A shepherd maiden came that way, Came o'er the green with song. Ah! thought the violet, might I be Ah! but for one brief hour;* And might be plucked by that dear maid, And gently on her bosom laid, Ah! but, ah! but A few dear moments long. Alas! the maiden, as she pass'd, By her, by her, Beneath her feet I die. TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE. BY JONES VERY. BRIGHT image of the early years When glow'd my cheek as red as thou, And life's dark throng of cares and fears Were swift-winged shadows o'er my sunny brow! Thou blushest from the painter's page, But Nature's hand in youth's green age With fairer hues first traced thee on my heart. The morning's blush, she made it thine, The morn's sweet breath, she gave it thee; And in thy look, my Columbine ! Each fond-remember'd spot she bade me see. I see the hill's far-gazing head, Where gay thou noddest in the gale; I hear the voice of woodland song Break from each bush and well-known tree, And, on light pinions borne along, Comes back the laugh from childhood's heart of glee. O'er the dark rock the dashing brook, Fair child of art! thy charms decay, Touched by the wither'd hand of Time: And hushed the music of that day, When my voice mingled with the streamlet' chime; But on my heart thy cheek of bloom Shall live when Nature's smile has fled; And rich with memory's sweet perfume, Shall o'er her grave thy tribute incense shed. There shalt thou live and wake the glee And when, loved flower! I think of thee, THE CYPRESS WREATH. BY SIR W. SCOTT. O LADY, twine no wreath for me, |