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The heart and fancy, as pellucid wave

Of fount or river Flings back more bright what bright doth on it fall, And its own radiance lends where else were none

at all.

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SWEET is the Rose, but growes upon a brere;
Sweet is the Juniper, but sharpe his bough;
Sweet is the Eglantine, but pricketh nere ;
Sweet is the Firbloom, but his branches rough,
Sweet is the Cypress, but his rind is tough,
Sweet is the Nut, but bitter is his pill;
Sweet is the Broome-flowere, but yet sowre

And sweet is Moly, but his roote is ill.
So every sweet with sowre is tempred still,
That maketh it be coveted the more :
For easie things that may be got at will,
Most sorts of men doe set but little store.
Why then should I account of little paine,
That endless pleasure shall unto me gaine ?



"I'was a lovely thought to mark the hours,

As they floated in light away,
By the opening and the folding flowers,

That laugh to the summer's day.

Thus had each moment its own rich hue,

And its graceful cup and bell,
In whose colour'd vase might sleep the dew,

Like a pearl in an ocean shell.

To such sweet signs might the time have flow'd

In a golden current on,
Ere from the garden, man's first abode,

The glorious guests were gone.

So might the days have been brightly told

Those days of song and dreams, -
When shepherds gather'd their flocks of old,

By the blue Arcadian streams.

So in those isles of delight, that rest

Far off in a breezeless main,
Which many a bark, with a weary quest,

Has sought, but still in vain.

Yet is not life, in its real flight,

Mark'd thus-even thus-on earth, By the closing of one hope's delight,

And another's gentle birth ?

Oh! let us live so that flower by flower,

Shutting in turn, may leave
A lingerer still for the sunset hour,

A charm for the shaded eve.

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That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty ; violets, dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes,
Or Cytherea's breath ; pale primroses,
That die unmarried, ere they can behold
Bright Phæbus in his strength;

Bold oxlips, and
The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds,
The flower-de-luce being one.



Bowing adorers of the gale,
Ye Cowslips delicately pale,

Upraise your loaded stems;
Unfold your cups in splendour, speak!
Who deck'd you with that ruddy streak,

And gilt your golden gems ?

Violets, sweet tenants of the shade,
In purple's richest pride array'd,

Your errand here fulfil;
Go bid the artist's simple strain
Your lustre imitate in vain,

And match your Maker's skill.

Daisies, ye flowers of lowly birth.
Embroiderers of the carpet earth,

That stud the velvet sod;
Open to Spring's refreshing air,
In sweetest smiling bloom declare

Your Maker, and my God.



SOME clothe the soil that feeds them, far aiffused
And lowly creeping, modest and yet fair,
Like virtue, thriving most where little seen;
Some more aspiring catch the neighbour shrub
With clasping tendrils, and invest his branch,
Else unadorn'd, with many a gay festoon,
And fragrant chaplet, recompensing well
The strength they borrow with the grace they lend.




WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flower,
Thou'st met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush among the stour

Thy slender stem;
To spare thee now is past my power,

Thou bonnie gem.

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