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
Narcissus pining o'er the untainted spring?
In some delicious ramble he had found
A little space, with boughs all woven round;
And in the midst of all a clearer pool
Than e'er reflected in its pleasant cool

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,
Drooping its beauty o'er the watery clearness,
To woo its own sad image into nearness :
Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move,
But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love.
So while the poet stood in this sweet spot,
Some fainter gleamings o'er his fancy shot;
Nor was it long ere he had told the tale
Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo's vale.

ON RECEIVING A BRANCH OF MEZEREON.

WHICH FLOWERED AT WOODSTOCK, DEC. 1809.

BY MRS. TIGHE.

ODOURS of spring, my sense ye charm
With fragrance premature;

And, mid these days of dark alarm
Almost to hope allure.

Methinks with purpose soft ye come

To tell of brighter hours,

Of May's blue skies, abundant bloom,
Her sunny gales and showers.

Alas! for me shall May in vain

The powers of life restore;

These eyes that weep and watch in pain
Shall see her charms no more.

No, no, this anguish cannot last!
Beloved friends, adieu!

The bitterness of death were past,
Could I resign but you."

But oh! in every mortal pang

That rends my soul from life,-
That soul, which seems on you to nang
Through each convulsive strife,

Even now, with agonizing grasp
Of terror and regret,

To all in life its love would clasp,
Clings close and closer yet.

Yet, why, immortal, vital spark!
Thus mortally opprest?

Look up, my soul, through prospects dark
And bid thy terrors rest;
Forget, forego thy earthly part,

Thine heavenly being trust:

Ah, vain attempt! my coward heart
Still shuddering clings to dust.

O ye! who soothe the pangs of death
With love's own patient care,
Still, still retain this fleeting breath,
Still pour the fervent prayer.
And ye, whose smile must greet my eye

No more, nor voice my ear,

Who breathe for me the tender sigh,
And shed the pitying tear;

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,
Forget alone her faults;

And speak of her with fond regret
Who asks your lingering thoughts.

THE LITTLE RED ROSE.

FROM GOETHE.

A BOY caught sight of a rose in a bower-
A little rose slily hiding

Among the boughs; O! the rose was bright
And young, and it glimmer'd like morning light,
The urchin sought it with haste; 'twas a flower
A child indeed might take pride in-

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,
The little rose vainly hiding

Among the boughs; O, the rose was caught,
But it turned again, and pricked and fought,
And left with its spoiler a smart from that hour,
A pain for ever abiding;

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
While your rich odours heavily ascend,
The flitting winds to woo.

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.