No, the roses soon wither'd that hung o'er the wave,

And some blossoms were gather'd, while freshly they shone, And a dew was distill'd from their flowers, that gave

All the fragrance of Summer, when Summer is gone:
Thus Memory draws from delight, ere it dies,
An essence that breathes of it many a year;

Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes,
Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer!

MOORE.

WONDERS AND MURMURS.

STRANGE, that the Wind should be left so free,
To play with a flower, or tear a tree ;
To range or ramble where'er it will,
And, as it lists, to be fierce or still;
Above, and around to breathe of life,
Or to mingle the earth and sky in strife;
Gently to whisper, with morning light,
Yet to growl like a fetter'd fiend ere night;
Or to love, and cherish, and bless, to-day,
What to-morrow it ruthlessly rends away !
Strange, that the Sun should call into birth
All the fairest flowers and fruits of earth,
Then bid them perish, and see them die,
While they cheer the soul and gladden the eye.
At
morn, its child is the pride of Spring-
At night, a shrivell'd and loathsome thing!
To-day, there is hope and life in its breath,
To-morrow, it shrinks to a useless death.
Strange doth it seem, that the Sun should joy;
To give life, alone, that it may destroy.
Strange, that the Ocean should come and go,
With its daily and nightly ebb and flow,—
Should bear on its placid breast at morn,—
The bark that ere night, will be tempest-torn;

Or cherish it all the way it must roam,
To leave it a wreck within sight of home :
To smile, as the mariner's toils are o'er,
Then wash the dead to the cottage door;
And gently ripple along the strand,

To watch the widow behold him land!

But, stranger than all, that man should die,
When his plans are form'd and his hopes are high;
He walks forth a lord of the earth to-day,
And the morrow beholds him part of its clay;
He is born in sorrow and cradled in pain,
And from youth to age-it is labour in vain ;
And all that seventy years can show,
Is, that wealth is trouble, and wisdom woe;
That he travels a path of care and strife,
Who drinks of the poison'd cup of life!

Alas! if we murmur at things like these,
That reflection tells us are wise decrees;
That the Wind is not ever a gentle breath,-
That the Sun is often the bearer of death,-
That the Ocean-wave is not always still,-
And that Life is chequer'd with good and ill:
If we know 'tis well that such change should be,
What do we learn from the things we see?

That an erring and sinning child of dust

Should not wonder nor murmur,-but hope and trust.

TO THE LILY OF THE VALLEY.

FAIR flower, that lapt in lowly glade
Dost hide beneath the greenwood shade,
Than whom the vernal gale

None fairer wakes on bank or spray,
Our England's Lily of the May,
Our Lily of the Vale.

Art thou that "Lily of the field"
Which, when the Saviour sought to shield
The heart from blank despair,

He show'd to our mistrustful kind,
An emblem to the thoughtful mind
Of God's paternal care ?

Not thus I trow: for brighter shine
To the warm skies of Palestine

Those children of the East.-
There, when mild Autumn's early rain
Descends on parch'd Esdrela's plain,
And Tabor's oak-girt crest-

More frequent than the host of night,
Those earth-born stars, as sages write,
Their brilliant disks unfold;

Fit symbol of imperial state
Their sceptre-seeming forms elate,
And crowns of burnish'd gold.

But not the less, sweet spring-tide's flower,
Dost thou display the MAKER's power,
His skill and handy work,

Our western valleys' humbler-child;
Where in green nook of woodland wild
Thy modest blossoms lurk.

What though nor care nor art be thine,
The loom to ply, the thread to twine:
Yet, born to bloom and fade,
Thee too a lovelier robe arrays,
Than e'er in Israel's brightest days
Her wealthiest king array'd.

Of thy twin leaves th' embowered screen
Which wraps thee in thy shroud of green;
Thy Eden-breathing smell;
Thy arch'd and purple-vested stem,
Whence pendent many a pearly gem,
Displays a milk-white bell;

Instinct with life thy fibrous root,

Which sends from earth th' ascending shoot,

As rising from the dead,
And fills thy veins with verdant juice,
Charg'd thy fair blossoms to produce,
And berries scarlet red:

The triple cell, the two-fold seed,
A ceaseless treasure-house decreed,

Whence aye thy race may grow,
As from creation they have grown,
While Spring shall weave her flowery crown,
Or vernal breezes blow:-

Who forms thee thus with unseen hand;
Who at creation gave command,

And will'd thee thus to be

And keeps thee still in being through

Age after age revolving, who

But the GREAT GOD is HE?

Omnipotent to work his will;
Wise, who contrives each part to fill
The post to each assign'd;

Still provident, with sleepless care
To keep; to make thee sweet and fair
For man's enjoyment, kind!

"There is no GOD," the senseless say :-
"O GOD, why cast'st thou us away?”
Of feeble faith and frail

The mourner breathes his anxious thought-
By thee a better lesson taught,

Sweet Lily of the Vale.

Yes! HE who made and fosters thee,

In reason's eye perforce must be

Of majesty divine;

Nor deems she that his guardian care
Will HE in man's support forbear,

Who thus provides for thine.

RURICOLA.

These beautiful stanzas, from the pen of an anonymous writer, are extracted from the Field Naturalist's Magazine, 1833. The elegant sentiments and pure morality expressed in them, cannot but excite hopes of further productions from this agreeable poet and naturalist. These lines to the Lily of the Valley, Convallaria majalis, or May-lily, as it is popularly called, refer, in a most pleasing manner, to its natural situation, and the season of its flowering. In illustration of some allusions in them, it is proper to premise, that "the lily of the field," mentioned by our Saviour in his Sermon on the Mount, Matt. vi. 28, is supposed by Sir J. E. Smith to be the Amaryllis lutea, or Yellow Amaryllis, sometimes called the "Autumnal Narcissus," or "Star-lily:" which overruns the fields of the Levant in Autumn, and by its golden liliaceous flowers, affords one of the most brilliant and gorgeous objects in Nature. The Mount is generally supposed to be Mount Tabor, in the plain of Esdraelon, or Esdrela.-Page 401. See Note in p. 126.

Observe the rising lily's snowy grace,
Observe the various vegetable race;

They neither toil, nor spin, but careless grow,

Yet see how warm they blush! how bright they glow!
What regal vestments can with them compare!
What king so shining! or what queen so fair!

THOMSON.

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