On, with intense desire, Man's spirit will move on; It seems to die, yet, like heaven's fire, It is not quench'd, but gone. ON PLANTING A TULIP-ROOT. HERE lies a bulb, the child of earth, Buried alive beneath the clod, Ere long to spring, by second birth, 'Tis said that microscopic power Might through its swaddling folds descry The infant-image of the flower, Too exquisite to meet the eye. This, vernal suns and rains will swell, Two shapely leaves will first unfold, The verdant bud shall turn to gold, Not one of Flora's brilliant race A form more perfect can display; Art could not feign more simple grace, Yet, rich as morn of many a hue, When flushing clouds through darkness strike, The tulip's petals shine in dew, All beautiful, - but none alike. Kings, on their bridal, might unrobe To lay their glories at its foot; And queens their sceptre, crown, and globe, Exchange for blossom, stalk, and root. Here could I stand and moralize; Lady, I leave that part to thee; Be thy next birth in Paradise, Thy life to come eternity. THE ADVENTURE OF A STAR. Addressed to a Young Lady. A STAR Would be a flower; And, in a honeysuckle bower, Lit up its little flame. There on a bank, beneath the shade, By sprays, and leaves, and blossoms made, It overlook'd the garden-ground, - A landscape stretching ten yards round: O what a change of place From gazing through the' eternity of space! Gay plants on every side Their ravishing perfumes : |