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0! pray believe that angels
From those blue dominions, Brought us in their white laps down, 'twixt their
BY JOHN KEATS.
What first inspired a bard of old to sing
ON RECEIVING A BRANCH OF
WHICH FLOWERED AT WOODSTOCK, DEC. 1809.
BY MRS. TIGHE.
ODOURS of spring, my sense ye charm
With fragrance premature;
Almost to hope allure.
To tell of brighter hours,
Her sunny gales and showers.
Alas! for me shall May in vain
The powers of life restore ;
Shall see her charms no more.
Beloved friends, adieu !
Could I resign but you.
But oh! in every mortal pang
That rends my soul from life,-
Through each convulsive strife,
Even now, with agonizing grasp
Of terror and regret,
Clings close and closer yet.
Thus mortally opprest?
And bid thy terrors rest;
Thine heavenly being trust :
Still shuddering clings to dust.
With love's own patient care,
Still pour the fervent prayer.
No more, nor voice my ear,
And shed the pitying tear ;
My grateful thoughts perceive,
My last sad claim receive !
Forget alone her faults ;
Who asks your lingering thoughts.
A Boy caught sight of a rose in a bower
A little rose slily hiding
little rose, little red rose, Among the bushes hiding.
A little rose,
The wild boy shouted—“I'll pluck thee, rose,
Little rose vainly hiding Among the boughs;" but the little rose spoke “I'll prick thee, and that will prove no joke; Unhurt, O then will I mock thy woes, Whilst thou thy folly art chiding.” little rose,
little red rose, Among the bushes hiding !
But the rude boy laid his hands on the flower,
The little rose vainly hiding
little rose, little red rose, Among the bushes hiding !
THE VOICE OF THE FLOWERS.
BY MARY ANNE BROWNE.
BLOSSOMS, that lowly bend, Shutting your leaves from evening's chilly dew While your rich odours heavily ascend,
The flitting winds to woo.
I walk at silent eve, When scarce a breath is in the garden bowers, And many a vision and wild fancy weave,
'Midst ye, ye lovely flowers;
Beneath the cool green boughs, And perfumed bells of the fresh blossom'd line, That stoop and gently touch my feverish brow
Fresh in their summer prime;
Or in the mossy dell, Where the pale primrose trembles at a breath ; Or where the lily, by the silent well,
Beholds her form beneath ;
Or where the rich queen-rose Sits, throned and blushing, 'midst her leaves and
moss; Or where the wind-flower, pale and fragile blows,
Or violets banks emboss.