THE FLOWERS OF THE FIELD.

SWEET nurslings of the vernal skies,

Bathed in soft airs, and fed with dew, What more than magic in you lies,

To fill the heart's fond view? In childhood's sports, companions gay, In sorrow, on life's downward way, How soothing! in our last decay Memorials prompt and true.

Relics ye are of Eden's bowers,

As pure, as fragrant, and as fair,

As when ye crown'd the sunshine hours
Of happy wanderers there.
Fall'n all beside-the world of life,
How is it stain'd with fear and strife!
In Reason's world what storms are rife,
What passions range and glare!

But cheerful and unchanged the while

Your first and perfect form ye show, The same that won Eve's matron smile In the world's opening glow.

The stars of heaven a course are taught
Too high above our human thought;-
Ye may be found if ye are sought,
And as we gaze, we know.

Ye dwell beside our paths and homes, Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow, And guilty man, where'er he roams,

Your innocent mirth may borrow. The birds of air before us fleet, They cannot brook our shame to meetBut we may taste your solace sweet And come again to-morrow.

Ye fearless in your nests abide

Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise, Your silent lessons, undescried

By all but lowly eyes:

For ye could draw the admiring gaze
Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys;
Your order wild, your fragrant maze,
He taught us how to prize.

Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour,
As when He paused and own'd you good;
His blessing on earth's primal bower,

Ye felt it all renew'd.

What care ye now, if winter's storm Sweep ruthless o'er each silken form? Christ's blessing at your heart is warm, Ye fear no vexing mood.

Alas! of thousand bosoms kind,
That daily court you and caress,
How few the happy secret find
Of your calm loveliness!
"Live for to-day! to-morrow's light
To-morrow's cares shall bring to sight,
Go sleep like closing flowers at night,
And heaven thy morn will bless."

THE NIGHTINGALE.

LESSONS Sweet of spring returning,
Welcome to the thoughtful heart!
May I call ye sense or learning,
Instinct pure, or heaven-taught art?
Be your title what it may,
Sweet and lengthening April day,
While with you the soul is free,
Ranging wild o'er hill and lea.

Soft as Memnon's harp at morning,
To the inward ear devout,
Touch'd by light, with heavenly warning
Your transporting chords ring out.
Every leaf in every nook,
Every wave in every brook,
Chanting with a solemn voice,
Minds us of our better choice.

Needs no show of mountain hoary, Winding shore or deepening glen, Where the landscape in its glory

Teaches truth to wandering men: Give true hearts but earth and sky, And some flowers to bloom and die,Homely scenes and simple views Lowly thoughts may best infuse.

See the soft green willow springing Where the waters gently pass, Every way her free arms flinging

O'er the moss and reedy grass. Long ere winter blasts are fled, See her tipp'd with vernal red, And her kindly flower display'd Ere her leaf can cast a shade.

Though the rudest hand assail her,
Patiently she droops awhile,
But when showers and breezes hail her,

Wears again her willing smile.
Thus I learn contentment's power
From the slighted willow bower,
Ready to give thanks and live
On the least that Heaven may give.

If, the quiet brooklet leaving,
Up the stony vale I wind,
Haply half in fancy grieving

For the shades I leave behind,
By the dusty wayside drear,
Nightingales with joyous cheer
Sing, my sadness to reprove,
Gladlier than in cultured grove.

Where the thickest boughs are twining
Of the greenest, darkest tree,
There they plunge, the light declining-

All may hear, but none may see.
Fearless of the passing hoof,
Hardly will they fleet aloof;
So they live in modest ways,
Trust entire, and ceaseless praise.

FOREST LEAVES IN AUTUMN.

RED o'er the forest peers the setting sun,
The line of yellow light dies fast away
That crown'd the eastern copse; and chill and dun
Falls on the moor the brief November day.
Now the tired hunter winds a parting note,
And echo bids good-night from every glade;
Yet wait awhile, and see the calm leaves float
Each to his rest beneath their parent shade.
How like decaying life they seem to glide!

And yet no second spring have they in store,
But where they fall forgotten to abide,

Is all their portion, and they ask no more.
Soon o'er their heads blithe April airs shall sing,
A thousand wild-flowers round them shall unfold,
The green buds glisten in the dews of spring,
And all be vernal rapture as of old.
Unconscious they in waste oblivion lie,

In all the world of busy life around
No thought of them; in all the bounteous sky
No drop, for them, of kindly influence found.

Man's portion is to die and rise again—

Yet he complains, while these unmurmuring part With their sweet lives, as pure from sin and stain, As his when Eden held his virgin heart. And haply, half unblamed his murmuring voice Might sound in heaven, were all his second life Only the first renew'd-the heathen's choice,

A round of listless joy and weary strife.

For dreary were this earth, if earth were all, Though brighten'd oft by dear affection's kiss ;Who for the spangles wears the funeral pall?

But catch a gleam beyond it, and 'tis bliss. Heavy and dull this frame of limbs and heart, Whether slow creeping on cold earth, or borne On lofty steed, or loftier prow, we dart

O'er wave or field: yet breezes laugh to scorn. Our puny speed, and birds, and clouds in heaven, And fish, like living shafts that pierce the main, And stars that shoot through freezing air at even

Who but would follow, might he break his chain? And thou shalt break it soon; the grovelling worm Shall find his wings, and soar as fast and free As his transfigured Lord with lightning form

And snowy vest-such grace He won for thee.

When from the grave he sprung at dawn of morn, And led thro' boundless air thy conquering road, Leaving a glorious track, where saints new-born Might fearless follow to their blest abode.

But first, by many a stern and fiery blast

The world's rude furnace must thy blood refine, And many a gale of keenest wo be pass'd, Till every pulse beat true to airs divine; Till every limb obey the mounting soul,

The mounting soul, the call by Jesus given. He who the stormy heart can so control

The laggard body soon will waft to heaven.

DIMNESS.

Or the bright things in earth and air
How little can the heart embrace !
Soft shades and gleaming lights are there-
I know it well, but cannot trace.
Mine eye unworthy seems to read

One page of Nature's beauteous book:
It lies before me, fair outspread—
I only cast a wishful look.

I cannot paint to Memory's eye

The scene, the glance, I dearest loveUnchanged themselves, in me they die, Or faint, or false, their shadows prove. In vain, with dull and tuneless ear, I linger by soft music's cell, And in my heart of hearts would hear

What to her own she deigns to tell. 'Tis misty all, both sight and soundI only know 't is fair and sweet— 'Tis wandering on enchanted ground With dizzy brow and tottering feet. But patience! there may come a time When these dull ears shall scan aright Strains, that outring earth's drowsy chime, As heaven outshines the taper's light. These eyes, that dazzled now and weak

At glancing motes in sunshine wink,
Shall see the King's full glory break,
Nor from the blissful vision shrink:

Though scarcely now their laggard glance
Reach to an arrow's flight, that day
They shall behold, and not in trance,
The region "very far away."

If memory sometimes at our spell

Refuse to speak, or speak amiss,
We shall not need her where we dwell,
Ever in sight of all our bliss.

Meanwhile, if over sea or sky,

Some tender lights unnoticed fleet, Or on loved features dawn and die, Unread, to us, their lesson sweet; Yet are there saddening sights around, Which heaven, in mercy, spares us too, And we see far in holy ground,

If duly purged our mental view. The distant landscape draws not nigh For all our gazing; but the soul, That upward looks, may still descry Nearer, each day, the brightening goal. And thou, too curious ear, that fain Wouldst thread the maze of harmony, Content thee with one simple strain,

The lowlier, sure, the worthier thee; Till thou art duly train'd, and taught The concord sweet of love divine: Then, with that inward music fraught, For ever rise, and sing, and shine.

Thus bad and good their several warnings give
Of His approach, whom none may see and live:
Faith's ear, with awful still delight,
Counts them like minute bells at night,
Keeping the heart awake till dawn of morn,
While to her funeral pile this aged world is borne.

But what are Heaven's alarms to hearts that cower In wilful slumber, deepening every hour,

That draw their curtains closer round, The nearer swells the trumpet's sound? Lord, ere our trembling lamps sink down and die, Touch us with chastening hand, and make us feel Thee nigh.

ADDRESS TO POETS.

YE whose hearts are beating high
With the pulse of poesy,
Heirs of more than royal race,
Framed by Heaven's peculiar grace,
God's own work to do on earth,

(If the word be not too bold,) Giving virtue a new birth,

And a life that ne'er grows old

Sovereign masters of all hearts!
Know ye who hath set your parts?
He, who gave you breath to sing,
By whose strength ye sweep the string,
He hath chosen you to lead

His hosannas here below;-
Mount, and claim your glorious meed;

Linger not with sin and wo.

But if ye should hold your peace,
Deem not that the song would cease-
Angels round His glory-throne,
Stars, His guiding hand that own,
Flowers, that grow beneath our feet,
Stones, in earth's dark womb that rest
High and low in choir shall meet,
Ere His name shall be unblest.

Lord, by every minstrel tongue
Be thy praise so duly sung,
That thine angels' harps may ne'er
Fail to find fit echoing here!
We the while, of meaner birth,
Who in that divinest spell
Dare not hope to join on earth,
Give us grace to listen well.

But should thankless silence seal
Lips that might half-heaven reveal-
Should bards in idol-hymns profane
The sacred soul-enthralling strain,
(As in this bad world below

Noblest things find vilest using,)
Then, thy power and mercy show,
In vile things noble breath infusing.

Then waken into sound divine
The very pavement of thy shrine,

Till we, like heaven's star-sprinkled floor,
Faintly give back what we adore,
Childlike though the voices be,

And untunable the parts,
Thou wilt own the minstrelsy,
If it flow from childlike hearts.

THE UNITED STATES.

TYRE of the farther west! be thou too warn'd, Whose eagle wings thine own green world o'erspread,

Touching two oceans: wherefore hast thou scorn'd Thy fathers' God, O proud and full of bread? Why lies the cross unhonour'd on thy ground, While in mid-air thy stars and arrows flaunt? That sheaf of darts, will it not fall unbound, Except, disrobed of thy vain earthly vaunt, Thou bring it to be bless'd where saints and angels haunt?

The holy seed, by Heaven's peculiar grace,

Is rooted here and there in thy dark woods; But many a rank weed round it grows apace,

And Mammon builds beside thy mighty floods, O'ertopping nature, braving nature's God;

Oh while thou yet hast room, fair, fruitful land, Ere war and want have stain'd thy virgin sod, Mark thee a place on high, a glorious stand, Whence truth her sign may make o'er forest, lake, and strand.

Eastward, this hour, perchance thou turnest thine
Listening if haply with the surging sea
Blend sounds of ruin from a land once dear

[ear,

To thee and Heaven. O trying hour for thee! Tyre mock'd when Salem fell; where now is Tyre? Heaven was against her. Nations thick as waves Burst o'er her walls, to ocean doom'd and fire; And now the tideless water idly laves Her towers, and lone sands heap her crowned merchants' graves.

CHAMPIONS OF THE TRUTH.

"Who shall go for us?" And I said, "Here am I: send me." DULL thunders moan around the Temple rock, And deep in hollow caves, far underneath, The lonely watchman feels the sullen shock,

His footsteps timing as the low winds breathe; Hark! from the Shrine is ask'd, What steadfast

heart

Dares in the storm go forth? Who takes the Almighty's part?

And with a bold gleam flush'd, full many a brow Is raised to say, "Behold me, Lord, and send !" But ere the words be breathed, some broken vow Remember'd, ties the tongue; and sadly blend With faith's pure incense, clouds of conscience dim, And faltering tones of guilt mar the Confessor's hymn.

THIS poet was born in Dublin, on the fourteenth of December, 1791. On the death of his father, the family removed to England, where they resided several years. In 1805 young WOLFE was placed at the Winchester School, where he remained until 1809, when he entered the university of his native city. Here he was distinguished as a classical scholar, and for his abilities as a poet. At a very early age, while at Winchester, he had written verses remarkable as the productions of one so young, and before completing his twentyfirst year, he gained the reputation of being the first genius in the university, by two poems of considerable merit, Jugurtha and Patriotism, for the last of which a prize was given by one of the college societies.

In the autumn of 1817, Mr. WOLFE entered into holy orders, and he soon after obtained a living in an obscure parish of Tyrone county, and subsequently the curacy of Castle Caulfield. He devoted himself with untiring assiduity to the duties of his profession until the spring of 1821, when symptoms of consumption made their appearance, and he was induced to visit Scotland, to consult a physician

distinguished for his skill in the treatment of pulmonary complaints. This visit was productive of no benefit. WOLFE returned to his cure, and soon after went to reside in Devonshire, and subsequently at Bordeaux in the south of France. The summer months of 1822 were passed with his friend Archdeacon Russell, in Dublin. In November of that year he removed to the Cove of Cork, where he died on the twenty-first of February, 1822, in the thirty-second year of his age.

WOLFE is chiefly known as the writer of the lines on the Burial of Sir John Moore, which were originally printed anonymously, and attributed in turn to nearly every eminent poet of the day. Their authorship has been a subject of some controversy since the death of WOLFE, but the question has been put to rest by an article in the Dublin University Magazine for December, 1842, in which the proofs that it is by WOLFE are demonstrative. Several of his other pieces are distinguished for exquisite melody and tenderness, and show that he was capable of the highest lyrical efforts. Dr. RUSSEL has published the Remains of WOLFE, with an interesting memoir of his life.

OH, MY LOVE HAS AN EYE OF THE SOFTEST BLUE.

Оn, my love has an eye of the softest blue,

Yet it was not that that won me;

But a little bright drop from her soul was there, "Tis that that has undone me.

I might have pass'd that lovely cheek,

Nor, perchance, my heart have left me;

But the sensitive blush that came trembling there,
Of my heart it for ever bereft me.

I might have forgotten that red, red lip-
Yet how from that thought to sever ?—

But there was a smile from the sunshine within,
And that smile I'll remember for ever.

Think not 'tis nothing but lifeless clay,
The elegant form that haunts me;
'Tis the gracefully delicate mind that moves
In every step, that enchants me.

Let me not hear the nightingale sing,

Though I once in its notes delighted;

The feeling and mind that comes whispering forth Has left me no music beside it.

Who could blame had I loved that face, Ere my eye could twice explore her; Yet it is for the fairy intelligence there, And her warm-warm heart I adore her.

OH, SAY NOT THAT MY HEART IS COLD.

Оn, say not that my heart is cold

To aught that once could warm it; That nature's form, so dear of old,

No more has power to charm it;

Or, that the ungenerous world can chill
One glow of fond emotion

For those who made it dearer still,
And shared my wild devotion.

Still oft those solemn scenes I view
In rapt and dreamy sadness;

Oft look on those who loved them too
With fancy's idle gladness;

Again I long'd to view the light
In nature's features glowing;
Again to tread the mountain's height,
And taste the soul's o'erflowing.

Stera duty rose, and frowning flung
His leaden chain around me;
With iron look and sullen tongue
He mutter'd as he bound me:
"The mountain-breeze, the boundless heaven
Unfit for toil the creature;

These for the free alone are given

But what have slaves with nature?"

IF I HAD THOUGHT THOU COULDST HAVE DIED.

IF I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep for thee;

But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be!
It never through my mind had past,
The time would e'er be o'er,-
And I on thee should look my last,

And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,

And think 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain!

But when I speak, thou dost not say
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,

Sweet Mary! thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene,-

I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been!
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy grave,—
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,
In thinking too of thee:

Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,-

As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore !