But now the scene is changed, and all The trees, last eve so straight and tall, And streams of living daylight fall The boughs are strung with glittering pearls, And there they gleam in silvery curls, Seeming in wild fantastic whirls The work of fairy land. Each branch stoops meekly with the weight, As if some viewless angel sate Upon its graceful curves, And made the fibres spring elate, Oh! I could dream the robe of heaven, Beaming as when to spirits given, Had come in its stealthy flow, From the sky at silent even, For the morning's glorious show. ANON. FIELD FLOWERS. YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true, Yet, wildings of nature, I dote upon you, For ye waft me to summers of old, When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold. I love you for lulling me back into dreams Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams, And of broken blades breathing their balm; While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note Made music that sweeten'd the calm. Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June ; I thought it delightful your beauties to find Even now what affections the violet awakes; What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks; Earth's cultureless buds! to my heart ye were dear, Had scathed my existence's bloom; Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, CAMPBELL. A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE. I SAW her in the morn of hope, in life's delicious spring, A radiant creature of the earth, just bursting on the wing; Elate and joyous as the lark when first it soars on high, Without a shadow in its path,-a cloud upon its sky. I see her yet-so fancy deems-her soft, unbraided hair, Gleaming, like sunlight upon snow, above her forehead fair; Her large dark eyes, of changing light, the winning smile that play'd, In dimpling sweetness, round a mouth Expression's self had made! And light alike of heart and step, she bounded on her way, Nor dream'd the flowers that round her bloom'd would ever know decay ; She had no winter in her note, but evermore would sing (What darker season had she proved?) of spring-of only spring! Alas, alas, that hopes like hers, so gentle and so bright, The growth of many a happy year, one wayward hour should blight; Bow down her fair but fragile form, her brilliant brow o'ercast, And make her beauty-like her bliss-a shadow of the past! Years came and went-we met again,—but what a change was there! The glossy calmness of the eye, that whisper'd of despair; The fitful flushing of the cheek,-the lips compress'd and thin, The clench of the attenuate hands,-proclaim'd the strife within! Yet, for each ravaged charm of earth some pitying power had given Beauty, of more than mortal birth,-a spell that breathed of heaven ; And as she bent, resign'd and meek, beneath the chastening blow, With all a martyr's fervid faith her features seem'd to glow! No wild reproach, no bitter word, in that sad hour was spoken, For hopes deceived, for love betray'd, and plighted pledges broken ; Like Him who for his murderers pray'd,-she wept, but did not chide, And her last orisons arose for him for whom she died! Thus, thus, too oft the traitor man repays fond woman's truth; Thus blighting, in his wild caprice, the blossoms of her youth: And sad it is, in griefs like these, o'er visions loved and lost, That the truest and the tenderest heart must always suffer most! A. A. WATTS. TO A CHILD. WHOSE imp art thou, with dimpled cheek, What boots it who, with sweet caresses, Thy downcast glances, grave but cunning, Thy shyness, swiftly from me running, But far afield thou hast not flown, With mocks and threats half-lisp'd, half-spoken, I feel thee pulling at my gown, Of right good-will thy simple token! And thou must laugh and wrestle too, Thy after kindness more engaging! The wilding rose, sweet as thyself, And new-cropp'd daisies, are thy treasure; I'd gladly part with worldly pelf, To taste again thy youthful pleasure! But yet, for all thy merry look, Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming, When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook, The weary spell or hornbook thumbing! And thou a thing of hope and change! POETRY THE world is full of Poetry-the air And sparkle in its brightness. Earth is veil'd The year leads round the seasons, in a choir |