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When true hearts lie wither'd
And fond ones are flown,
This cold world alone?
LINES ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER
BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook ; The purple petals, fallen in the pool,
Made the black waters with their beauty gay ; Young RAPHAEL might covet such a school;
The lively show beguiled me from my way.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
Why, thou wert there, 0, rival of the rose !
But in my simple ignorance suppose The selfsame Power that brought me there,
THE EVENING PRIMROSE.
BY G. LANGHORNE.
THERE are that love the shades of life,
And shun the splendid walks of fame; There are that hold it rueful strife
To risk Ambition's losing game;
That far from envy's lurid eye
The fairest fruits of genius rear, Content to see them bloom and die
In friendship's small but kindly sphere.
Than vainer flowers, though sweeter far,
The Evening Primrose shuns the day; Blooms only to the western star,
And loves its solitary ray.
In Eden's vale an aged hind,
At the dim's twilight's closing hour, On his time-smoothed staff reclined,
With wonder view'd the opening flower.
“Ill-fated flower, at eve to blow,”
(In pity's simple thought he cries,) Thy bosom must not feel the glow Of splendid suns, o"
“Nor thee the vagrants of the field,
The hamlet's little train behold; Their eyes to sweet oppression yield,
When thine the falling shades unfold.
"Nor thee the hasty shepherd heeds,
When love has fill'd his heart with cares : For flowers he rifles all the meads ;
For walking flowers—but thine forbears.
“Ah! waste no more that beauteous bloom,
On night's chill shade that fragrant breath ; Let smiling suns those gems illume ?
Fair flower! to live unseen is death!"
Soft as the voice of vernal gales
That o'er the bending meadows blow, Or streams that steal through even vales,
And murmur that they move so slow. Deep in her unfrequented bower,
Sweet Philomela pour'd her strain ; The bird of eve approved her flower,
And answer'd thus the anxious swain :
But I love the modest mien,
Still I love the modest mien Of gentle evening fair, and her star-train'd queen.
“Didst thou, shepherd, never find
THE WINTER NOSEGAY.
BY WILLIAM COWPER.
WHAT nature, alas ! has denied
To the delicate growth of our isle, Art has in a measure supplied,
And winter is deck'd with a smile. See, Mary, what beauties I bring
From the shelter of that sunny shed, Where the flowers have the charms of the spring
Though abroad they are frozen and dead. 'Tis a bower of Arcadian sweets,
Where Flora is still in her prime, A fortress to which she retreats
From the cruel assaults of the clime. While earth wears a mantle of snow,
These pinks are as fresh and as gay As the fairest and sweetest that blow
On the beautiful bosom of May.
See how they have safely survived
The powers of a sky so severe; Such Mary's true love, that has lived
Through many a turbulent year. The charms of the late-blowing rose
Seem graced with a livelier hue, And the winter of sorrow best shows
The truth of a friend such as you.