O pray believe that angels From those blue dominions, Brought us in their white laps down, 'twixt their golden pinions. THE NARCISSUS. BY JOHN KEATS. WHAT first inspired a bard of old to sing The blue sky, here and there serenely peeping, 'Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping. And on the bank a lonely flower he spied, A meek and forlorn flower, with nought of pride, ON RECEIVING A BRANCH OF MEZEREON. WHICH FLOWERED AT WOODSTOCK, DEC. 1809. BY MRS. TIGHE. ODOURS of spring, my sense ye charm And, mid these days of dark alarm Methinks with purpose soft ye come To tell of brighter hours, Of May's blue skies, abundant bloom, Alas! for me shall May in vain The powers of life restore; These eyes that weep and watch in pain No, no, this anguish cannot last! The bitterness of death were past, But oh! in every mortal pang That rends my soul from life,- Even now, with agonizing grasp To all in life its love would clasp, Yet, why, immortal, vital spark! Look up, my soul, through prospects dark Thine heavenly being trust: Ah, vain attempt! my coward heart O ye! who soothe the pangs of death No more, nor voice my ear, Who breathe for me the tender sigh, Whose kindness (though far, far removed) My grateful thoughts perceive, Pride of my life, esteem'd, beloved, My last sad claim receive! Oh! do not quite your friend forget, And speak of her with fond regret THE LITTLE RED ROSE. FROM GOETHE. A BOY caught sight of a rose in a bower- Among the boughs; O! the rose was bright A little rose, little rose, little red rose, Among the bushes hiding. The wild boy shouted-"I'll pluck thee, Little rose vainly hiding rose, 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 rose, little red rose, Among the bushes hiding! But the rude boy laid his hands on the flower, Among the boughs; O, the rose was caught, Little rose, 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 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. |