The shape will vanish, and behold!
A silver shield with boss of gold,
That spreads itself, some fairy bold
In fight to cover.

I see thee glittering from afar,—
And then thou art a pretty star;
Not quite so fair as many are

In heaven above thee!

Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
Self-poised in air, thou seem'st to rest;
May peace come never to his nest
Who shall reprove thee!

Sweet flower! for by that name at last,
When all my reveries are past,

I call thee, and to that cleave fast,—
Sweet silent creature!

That breath'st with me in sun and air,
Do thou, as thou art won't, repair
My heart with gladness, and a share
Of thy meek nature!

WORDSWORTH.

BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES.

PUTTERCUPS and daisies-
Oh the pretty flowers,
Coming ere the spring-time

To tell of sunny hours.

While the trees are leafless,

While the fields are bare,

Buttercups and dasies

Spring up here and there.

Buttercups and Daisies.

Ere the snow-drop peepeth;

Ere the crocus bold; Ere the early primrose Opes its paly gold

Somewhere on a sunny bank

Buttercups are bright!

Somewhere 'mong the frozen grass

Peeps the daisy white.

Little hardy flowers

Like to children poor,

Playing in their sturdy health,
By their mother's door :
Purple with the north-wind
Yet alert and bold,
Fearing not and caring not,
Though they be a-cold!

What to them is weather!

What are stormy showers! Buttercups and daisies

Are these human flowers!

He who gave them hardship

And a life of care,

Gave them likewise hardy strength,

And patient hearts to bear.

Welcome yellow buttercups,

Welcome daisies white, Ye are in my spirit

Visioned a delight!

Coming ere the spring-time
Of sunny hours to tell

Speaking to our hearts of Him

Who doeth all things well.

233

MARY HOWITT.

VIOLETS.

NDER the green hedges after the snow,
There do the dear little violets grow,

Hiding their modest and beautiful heads

Under the hawthorn in soft mossy beds.

Sweet as the roses, and blue as the sky,

Down there do the dear little violets lie;

Hiding their heads where they scarce may be seen,
By the leaves you may know where the violet hath been.

F. MOULTRIE.

THE LILIES OF THE FIELD.

LOWERS! when the Saviour's calm benignant eye;
Fell on your gentle beauty; when from you

That heavenly lesson for all hearts he drew,

Eternal, universal, as the sky;

Then, in the bosom of your purity

A voice he set as in a temple-shrine,

That life's quick travellers ne'er might pass you by,

Unwarned of that sweet oracle divine.

And though too oft its low, celestial sound,

By the harsh notes of work-day care is drowned,
And the loud steps of vain, unlistening haste;
Yet the great ocean hath no tone of power

Mightier to reach the soul in thought's hushed hour,
Than yours, meek lilies!-chosen thus and graced.

HEMANS.

The Rose.

235

TO DAFFODILS.

RAIR daffodils we weep to see
You haste away so soon;

As yet the early rising sun

Has not attained his noon :
Stay, stay,

Until the hastening day

Has run

But to the even song;

And having prayed together, we
Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you;
We have as short a spring;

As quick a growth to meet decay

As you, or any thing:

HE rose had been washed, just washed in a shower,

Which Mary to Anna conveyed,

The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower,

And weighed down its beautiful head.

The cup was all filled, and the leaves were all wet,

And it seemed to a fanciful view,

To weep for the buds it had left, with regret,
On the flourishing bush where it grew.

I hastily seized it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned,
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
I snapped it-it fell to the ground.

And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind,

Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to sorrow resigned.

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,

Might have bloomed with its owner a while; And the tear that is wiped, with a little address, May be followed perhaps by a smile.

Cowper.

THE MOSS ROSE.

HE angel of the flowers one day,
Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay,

That spirit to whose charge is given
To bathe young buds in dews from heaven;
Awakening from his light repose,

The angel whispered to the rose,-
"Oh fondest object of my care,
Still fairest found where all are fair,
For the sweet shade thou giv'st to me,
Ask what thou wilt, 'tis granted thee;"