But the axe spar'd thee. In those thriftier days Oaks fell not, hewn by thousands, to supply Noiseless, an atom, and an atom more, 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, In praise harmonious the first air he drew. 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. 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, A night of frost, a day of wind, The hawthorn too that blast shall find, 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, 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 lavish stock, that scents the garden round: From the soft wing of vernal breezes shed, And full ranunculus of glowing red. Her idle freaks, from family diffus'd To family, as flies the father-dust, 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, Infinite numbers, delicacies, smells, 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 BEAUTIFUL are you in your lowliness; How gracefully, though mutely eloquent, Delightful flowerets! at the voice of Spring, 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, 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, Scatterest thy modest fragrance round; Thine is a short, swift reign I know But here, thy spirit still pervading |