Nor less the garden's sweet domain, The mossy heath or verdant mead, The tow'ring hill, the level plain, And fields with blooming life o'erspread. THE ALPINE VIOLET. BY LORD BYRON. THE Spring is come, the violet's gone, The first-born child of the early sun; With us she is but a winter flower, The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower; And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue, To the youngest sky of the self-same hue. But when the spring comes with her host Pluck the others, but still remember The morning star of all the flowers, BRIGHT flower, whose home is every where' And oft, the long year through, the heir Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see And wherefore? Man is soon deprest ; Or on his reason: But thou wouldst teach him how to find A hope for times that are unkind, THE IVY SONG. BY MRS. HEMANS. OH! how could fancy crown with thee Ivy thy home is where each sound Of revelry hath long been o'er. Where long-fallen gods recline, The Roman on his battle plains, Around the victor's grave. Urn and sculpture half-divine The cold halls of the regal dead, Where lone the Italian sunbeams dwell, Where hollow sounds the lightest tread Ivy! they know thee well! And far above the festal vine, Thou wavest where once proud banners hung, Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine, -The Rhine, still fresh and young! High from the fields of air look down Meeting the mountain storms with bloom, Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height, 'Tis still the same; our pilgrim tread DAFFODILS. BY WORDSWORTH. I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Continuous as the stars that shine Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they In such a jocund company; I gazed and gazed-but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought! For oft when on my couch I lie, In vacant or in pensive mood, |