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But the axe spar'd thee. In those thriftier days

Oaks fell not, hewn by thousands, to supply
The bottomless demands of contest, wag'd
For senatorial honours. Thus to Time
The task was left to whittle thee away
With his sly scythe, whose ever-nibbling
edge,

Noiseless, an atom, and an atom more,
Disjoining from the rest, has, unobserv'd,
Achiev'd a labour, which had far and wide,
By man perform'd, made all the forest ring.

Embowell'd now, and of thy ancient self Possessing nought, but the scoop'd rind, that

seems

An huge throat, calling to the clouds for drink Which it would give in rivulets to thy root, Thou temptest none, but rather much forbidd'st

The feller's toil, which thou could'st ill requite.

Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock, A quarry of stout spurs, and knotted fangs, Which crook'd into a thousand whimsies, clasp

The stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect.

But since, although well qualify'd by age, To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice May be expected from thee, seated here On thy distorted root, with hearers none, Or prompter, save the scene, I will perform Myself the oracle, and will discourse In my own ear such matter as I may.

One man alone, the father of us all,
Drew not his life from woman; never gaz'd
With mute unconsciousness of what he saw,
On all around him; learn'd not by degrees,
Nor owed articulation to his ear;
But, moulded by his Maker into man
At once, upstood intelligent, survey'd
All creatures, with precision understood
Their purport, uses, properties, assign'd
To each his name significant, and, fill'd
With love and wisdom, render'd back to
Heav'n

In praise harmonious the first air he drew.
He was excus'd the penalties of dull
Minority. No tutor charg'd his hand
With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his
mind

With problems. History, not wanted yet Lean'd on her elbow, watching Time, whose course,

So stands a kingdom, whose foundation yet Eventful, should supply her with a theme. Fails not, in virtue and in wisdom laid, Tho' all the superstructure, by the tooth Pulveriz'd of venality, a shell

Stands now and semblance only of itself!

Thine arms have left thee. Winds have

torn them off

Long since, and rovers of the forest wild, With bow and shaft, have burnt them. Some have left

A splinter'd stump, bleach'd to a snowy white;

And some, memorial none where once they grew.

Yet still life lingers in thee, and puts forth, Proof not contemptible of what she can, Even where death predominates. The spring Finds thee not less alive to her sweet force Than yonder upstarts of the neighb'ring wood,

So much thy juniors, who their birth receiv'd

Half a millennium since the date of thine.

THE PALMETTO.

GAY.

YET let me in some odorous shade repose, Whilst in my verse the fair palmetto grows: Like the tall pine it shoots its stately head, From the broad top depending branches spread;

No knotty limbs the taper body bears, Hung on each bough a single leaf appears, Which, shrivell'd in its infancy, remains Like a clos'd fan, nor stretches wide its

veins;

But, as the seasons in their circle run, Opes its ripp'd surface to the nearer sun, Beneath this shade the weary peasant lies, Plucks the broad leaf, and bids the breezes

rise.

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Fond friends may bend o'er the rais'd turf where I'm laid, And warm recollection the past may look o'er,

And say by my life, as I say by thy shade,

"Last spring he was living, but now he's no more.”

THE HAWTHORN.

ANON.

ON Summer's breast the hawthorn shines In all the lily's bloom,

'Mid slopes where th' evening flock reclines, Where glows the golden broom.

When yellow Autumn decks the plain,
The hawthorn's boughs are green,
Amid the ripening fields of grain,
In emerald brightness seen.

A night of frost, a day of wind,
Have stript the forest bare:

The hawthorn too that blast shall find,
Nor shall that spoiling spare.

But red with fruit, that hawthorn bongh, Tho' leafless yet will shine;

The blackbird for its hues shall know,

As lapwing knows the vine.

Be thus thy youth as lilies gay,
Thy manhood vigorous green;
And thus let fruit bedeck thy spray,
'Mid age's leafless scene.

FLOWERS.

THOMSON.

BUT, who can paint Like nature? Can imagination boast Amid its gay creation, hues like hers? Or can it mix them with that matchless skill, And lose them in each other, as appears In ev'ry bud that blows?

Along these blushing borders, bright with dew,

And in yon mingled wilderness of flowers, Fair-handed spring unbosoms every grace; Throws out the snow-drop and the crocus

first;

The daisy, primrose, violet, darkly blue,
And polyanthus of unnumber'd dyes;
The yellow wall-flower, stained with iron
brown;

And lavish stock, that scents the garden round:

From the soft wing of vernal breezes shed,
Anemonies, auriculas, enrich'd
With shining meal o'er all their velvet
leaves;

And full ranunculus of glowing red.
Then comes the tulip-race, where beanty
plays

Her idle freaks, from family diffus'd

To family, as flies the father-dust,
The varied colours run, and while they break
On the charm'd eye, the exulting florist

marks

With secret pride the wonders of his hand. No gradual bloom is wanting; from the bud First-born of spring, to summer's musky

tribes ;

Nor hyacinths, of purest virgin white, Low-bent, and blushing inward: nor jonquils

Of potent fragrance; nor narcissus fair,
As o'er the fabled fountain hanging still;
Nor broad carnations, nor gay spotted pinks;
Nor showered from ev'ry bush, the damask
rose;

Infinite numbers, delicacies, smells,
With hues on hues expression cannot paint,
The breath of nature and her endless bloom.

THE SNOW-DROP.

MRS. ROBINSON.

THE snow-drop, Winter's timid child, Awakes to life, bedew'd with tears; And flings around it fragrance mild, And when no rival flowerets bloom

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BEAUTIFUL are you in your lowliness;
Bright in your hues, delicious in your scent;
Lovely your modest blossoms downward bent,
As shrinking from our gaze, yet prompt to bless
The passer-by with fragrance, and express

How gracefully, though mutely eloquent,
Are unobtrusive worth, and meek content,
Rejoicing in their own obscure recess.

Delightful flowerets! at the voice of Spring,
Your buds unfolded to its sunbeams bright;

And though your blossoms soon shall fade from sight,

Above your lowly birth-place birds shall sing,

And from your clust'ring leaves the glow-worm fling,
The emerald glory of its earth-born light.

TO A VIOLET.

BOWRING.

SWEET flower! Spring's earliest, loveliest gem!

While other flowers are idly sleeping, Thou rear'st thy purple diadem;

Meekly from thy seclusion peeping.

Thou, from thy little secret mound,
Where diamond dew-drops shine above
thee,

Scatterest thy modest fragrance round;
And well may Nature's Poet love thee!

Thine is a short, swift reign I know

But here, thy spirit still pervading

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