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FAIR Flower, that shunn'st the glare of day For who but he who arched the skies,

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THE DAISY IN INDIA.

MONTGOMERY.

Supposed to be addressed by the Rev. Dr. Carey, one of the Baptist Missionaries at Serampore, to the first plant of this kind, which sprung up unexpectedly in his garden, out of some English earth, in which other seeds had been conveyed to him from this country. With great care and nursing, the Doctor has been enabled to perpetuate the Daisy in India, as an annual only, raised by seed preserved from season to season.

THRICE Welcome, little English flower!
My mother-country's white and red,
In rose or lily, till this hour,
Never to me sach beauty spread:
Transplanted from thine island-bed,
A treasure in a grain of earth,
Strange as a spirit from the dead,
Thine embryo sprang to birth.

Thrice welcome, little English flower!
Whose tribes, beneath our natal skies,
Shut close their leaves while vapours lower;
But, when the sun's gay beams arise,
With unabash'd but modest eyes,
Follow his motion to the west,
Nor cease to gaze till daylight dies,
Then fold themselves to rest.

Thrice welcome, little English flower,
To this resplendent hemisphere,
Where Flora's giant offspring tower,
In gorgeous liveries all the year;
Thou, only thou, art little here,
Like worth unfriended and unknown,
Yet to my British heart more dear
Than all the torrid zone.

Thrice welcome, little English flower!
Of early scenes beloved by me,
While happy in my father's bower,
Thon shalt the blithe memorial be;

The fairy sports of infancy,

Youth's golden age, and manhood's prime, Home, country, kindred, friends,-with thee,

I find in this far clime.

Thrice welcome, little English flower!
I'll rear thee with a trembling hand;
Oh, for the April sun and shower,
The sweet May-dews of that fair land,
Where daisies, thick as star-light stand
In every walk!-that here may shoot
Thy scions, and thy buds expand,
A hundred from one root.

Thrice welcome, little English flower!
To me the pledge of hope unseen;
When sorrow would my soul o'erpower
For joys that were, or might have been,
I'll call to mind, how, fresh and green,
I saw thee waking from the dust;
Then turn to heaven with brow serene,
And place in God my trust.

THE MICHAELMAS-DAISY.

ANON.

LAST Smile of the departing year,
Thy sister sweets are flown!
Thy pensive wreath is far more dear
From blooming thus alone.

Thy tender blush, thy simple frame,
Unnoticed might have passed;
But now thou com'st with softer claim,
The loveliest and the last.

Sweet are the charms in thee we find,-
Emblem of hope's gay wing;
'Tis thine to call past bloom to mind,
To promise future spring.

TO THE WALL-FLOWER.

ANON.

I WILL not praise the often-flattered rose,
Or virgin-like with blushing charms half seen,
Or when in dazzling splendor like a queen,
All her magnificence of state she shows;

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So frail is the youth, and the beauty of man, Though they bloom, and look gay, like a

rose;

But all our fond care to preserve them is vain,

Time kills them as fast as he goes.

Then I'll not be proud of my youth and my beauty,

Since both of them wither and fade; But gain a good name by well doing my duty,

This will scent like a rose when I'm dead.

THE WINTER ROSE.

ANON.

HAIL, and farewell, thou lovely guest!

I may not woo thy stay,

The hues that paint thy glowing vest,

Are fading fast away,

Like the returning tints that die
At evening on the western sky,
And melt in misty grey.

It was but now thy radiant smile Broke through the season's gloom, As bending I inhaled awhile

Thy breathing of perfume, And traced on every silken leaf

A tale of summer, sweet and brief, And sudden as thy doom.

The morning sun thy petals hailed,
New from their mossy cell;
At eve his beam, in sorrow veiled,
Bade thee a last farewell;
To-morrow's ray shall mark the spot
Where, loosened from their fairy knot,
Thy withering beauties fell.

Alas! on thy forsaken stem

My heart shall long recline, And mourn the transitory gem, And make the story mine!

So on my joyless winter hour

Has oped some fair and fragrant flower, With smile as soft as thine.

Like thee the vision came, and went,
Like thee it bloomed and fell,
In momentary pity sent

of fairer climes to tell;

So frail its form, so short its stay,
That nought the lingering heart conld say,
But hail, and fare thee well!

THE MOSS-ROSE.

FROM THE GERMAN.

THE Angel of the flowers one day, Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay, That spirit to whom charge is given To bathe young buds in dews of heaven; Awaking from his light repose, The angel whispered to the rose : "O fondest object of my care "Still fairest found, where all are fair; "For the sweet shade thou givest to me, "Ask what thou wilt 'tis granted thee!" "Then," said the rose, with deepened glow, "On me another grace bestow!"The spirit paused in silent thought, What grace was there that flower had not? 'Twas but a moment-o'er the rose A veil of moss the angel throws, And robed in nature's simplest weed, Could there a flower that rose exceed?

THE EVERLASTING-ROSE.

ANSTER.

HAIL to thy hues! thou lovely flower:
Still shed around thy soft perfume,

Still smile amid the wintry-hour,

And boast, ev'n now, a spring-tide bloom.

Thine is, methinks, a pleasing dream,
Lone lingerer in the icy vale,

Of smiles that hail'd the morning beam,
And sighs more sweet for ev'ning's gale.

Still are thy green leaves whispering

Low sounds to fancy's ear, that tell

Of mornings, when the wild bee's wing Shook dew-drops from thy sparkling cell!

In April's bower thy sweets are breathed,
And June beholds thy blossoms fair;
In Autumn's chaplet thou art wreathed,
And round December's forehead bare.

With thee the graceful lily vied,

As summer breezes waved her head, And now the snow-drop at thy side

Meekly contrasts thy cheerful red.

'Tis thine to hear each varying voice, That marks the seasons sad or gay; The summer thrush bids thee rejoice, And wintry robin's dearer lay.

Sweet flower! how happy dost thou seem 'Mid parching heat, 'mid nipping frost : While gathering beauty from each beam,

No hue, no grace of thine is lost!

Thus Hope, 'mid life's severest days,

Still smiles, still triumphs o'er despair: Alike she lives in Pleasure's rays, And cold Affliction's winter air.

Charmer alike in lordly bower,
And in the hermit's cell she glows;
The Poet's and the Lover's flower,
The bosom's Everlasting Rose !

THE MARYGOLD.

WITHER.

WHEN with a serious musing I behold
The grateful and obsequious marygold,
How duly, every morning, she displays
Her open breast when Phoebus spreads his
rays;

How she observes him in his daily walk, Still bending tow'rds him her small slender stalk;

How, when he down declines, she droops and mourns,

Bedew'd, as 'twere with tears, till he returns ;

And how she veils her flowers when he is

gone,

As if she scorned to be looked upon
By an inferior eye; or did contemn
To wait upon a meaner light than him;
When this I meditate, methinks, the flowers
Have spirits far more generous than ours,
And give us fair examples, to despise
The servile fawnings and idolatries
Wherewith we court these earthly things
below,

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Which merit not the service we bestow.
But, O my God! though grovelling I appear
Upon the ground, and have a rooting here,
Which hales me downward, yet in my desire
To that which is above me I aspire;
And all my best affections I protess
To him that is the Sun of Righteousness.
Oh! keep the morning of his incarnation,
The burning noontide of his bitter passion,
The night of his descending, and the height
Of his ascension,-ever in my sight;
That, imitating him in what I may,
I never follow an inferior way.

THE HAREBELL.

ANON.

WITH drooping bells of clearest blue
Thou didst attract my childish view,
Almost resembling

The azure butterflies that flew
Where on the heath thy blossoms grew,
So lightly trembling.

Where feathery fern, and golden broom, Increase the sand-rock cavern's gloom, I've seen thee tangled,

'Mid tufts of purple heather bloom, By vain Arachne's treacherous loom, With dew-drops spangled.

'Mid ruins tumbling to decay,
Thy flowers their heavenly hues display,
Still freshly springing;
Where pride and pomp have pass'd away,
On mossy tomb and turret gray,

Like friendship clinging.

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