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For morn is approaching your charms to re

Perfumed with fresh fragrance and glittering with dew.

Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn: Kind Nature the embryo blossom will

save;

TH

THE FLOWER OF LOVE.

HE Tulip called to the Eglantine: "Good neighbor, I hope you see How the throngs that visit the garden come Το pay their respects to me; The florist admires my elegant robe And praises its rainbow ray,

But when shall spring visit the mouldering Till it seems as if through his raptured eyes

urn?

Oh, when shall it dawn on the night of the

grave?

He was gazing his soul away.

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may be so," said the Eglantine: In a humble nook I dwell,

'Twas thus, by the glare of false science And what is passing among the great

betrayed

That leads to bewilder and dazzles to

blind

My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to shade,

Destruction before me and sorrow behind. 'Oh pity, great Father of light,' then I cried,

Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee;

Lo! humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride: From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free.'

"And darkness and doubt are now flying

away;

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn.
So breaks on the traveller faint and astray
The bright and the balmy effulgence of

morn.

See Truth, Love and Mercy in triumph descending,

And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom! On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending,

And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.'

JAMES BEATTIE.

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In eyes that would not look on me ; I ne'er saw nectar on a lip

But where my own did hope to sip.
Has the maid who seeks my heart
Cheeks of rose untouched by art?
I will own the color true
When yielding blushes aid their hue.

Is her hand so soft and pure?
I must press it to be sure;
Nor can I be certain then
Till it, grateful, press again.
Must I, with attentive eye,
Watch her heaving bosom sigh?
I will do so when I see
That heaving bosom sigh for me.

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

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Friends, shall we not bestow our charity? But-sad reverse-one day's disease suf

Say, canst thou tell this poor old woman's

name,

Of shivering limbs and traits by famine wrung?

Once actress of the very highest fame,

All Paris doted on each song she sung.

ficed

To quench those eyes, that seraph voice to steal;

Now, all alone, forgotten and despised,

For twenty weary years I've seen her kneel.

No hand e'er better knew to lavish gold,
Kindly to give, ungrudgingly and free,

By turns to laughter moved or lost in Than that same hand she now for alms doth

tears,

Her beauty fired our youth to ecstacy.

What love-dreams, too, she caused in former years!

hold.

Friends, shall we not bestow our charity?

Friends, shall we not bestow our charity? The chill increases doubly while we stand;

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WOODS IN SPRING.

AIL, Source of being! Uni- When first the soul of Love is sent abroad Warm through the vital air, and on the

versal Soul

Of heaven and earth, essen

tial Presence, hail!

heart

Harmonious seizes, the gay troops begin

To thee I bend the knee, to In gallant thought to plume the painted

thee my thoughts

master-hand

Hast the great whole into

wing,

Continual climb, who with a And try again the long-forgotten strain
At first faint-warbled. But no sooner grows
The soft infusion prevalent and wide
Than, all alive, at once their joy o'erflows
In music unconfined. Up springs the lark,
Shrill-voiced and loud, the messenger of
Morn;

perfection touched.

By thee the various vegetative tribes, Wrapped in a filmy net and clad with leaves, Draw the live ether and imbibe the dew; By thee disposed into congenial soils Stands each attractive plant, and sucks and swells

The juicy tide, a twining mass of tubes;
At thy command the vernal sun awakes
The torpid sap, detruded to the root
By wintry winds, that, now in fluent dance.
And lively fermentation mounting, spreads
All this innumerous-colored scene of things.

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Ere yet the shadows fly, he, mounting, sings Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts

Calls up the tuneful nations. Every copse
Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush
Bending with dewy moisture o'er the heads
Of the coy choristers that lodge within,
Are prodigal of harmony. The thrush
And woodlark, o'er the kind-contending
throng

Superior heard, run through the sweetest length

Of notes when listening Philomela deigns
To let them joy, and purposes, in thought
Elate, to make her night excel their day.
The blackbird whistles from the thorny

brake;

The mellow bullfinch answers from the

grove;

Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowing furze Poured out profusely, silent. Joined to these, Innumerous songsters in the freshening shade

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Their food its insects and its moss their nests; With pious toil fulfilled, the callow young,

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