Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm,
A sylvan scene; and, as the ranks ascend
Shade above shade, a woody theatre
Of stateliest view. Yet higher than their tops
The verdurous wall of Paradise up sprung:
Which to our general sire gave prospect large
Into his nether empire neighbouring round.
And higher than that wall a circling row
Of goodliest trees, loaden with fairest fruit,
Blossoms and fruits at once, of golden hue,
Appear'd, with gay enamell'd colours mix'd:
On which the Sun more glad impress'd his beams
Than in fair evening cloud, or humid bow,
When God hath shower'd the earth; so lovely
seem'd
That landscape and of pure, now purer air
Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires
Vernal delight and joy, able to drive
All sadness but despair: now gentle gales,
Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense
Native perfumes, and whisper whence they
stole
Those balmy spoils; as when, to them who sail
Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past
Mozambic, off at sea north-east winds blow
Sabean odours from the spicy shore
Of Araby the blest; with such delay Well pleased, they slack their course, and many a league,
Cheer'd with the grateful smell, old Ocean smiles. -MILTON.
THERE is a flower, a little flower,
With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.
The prouder beauties of the field
In gay but quick succession shine, Race after race their honours yield, They flourish and decline.
But this small flower, to Nature dear, While moons and stars their courses run, Wreathes the whole circle of the year, Companion of the sun.
It smiles upon the lap of May,
The sultry August spreads its charms, Lights pale October on his way,
And twines December's arms.
The purple heath, and golden broom,
On moory mountains catch the gale,
O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume,
The violet in the vale.
But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.
Within the garden's cultured round,
It shares the sweet carnation's bed;
And blooms in consecrated ground
In honour of the dead.
The lambkin crops its crimson gem,
The wild bee murmurs on its breast, The blue fly bends its pensile stem,
Light o'er the skylark's nest.
'Tis Flora's page :-In every place,
In every season fresh and fair,
It opens with perennial grace,
And blossoms everywhere.
On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise;
The rose has but a summer reign,
The Daisy never dies.
THE PRISONER TO A ROBIN WHO CAME TO HIS WINDOW.
WELCOME! welcome little stranger!
Welcome to my lone retreat!
Here, secure from every danger,
Hop about, and chirp, and eat.
Robin, how I envy thee,
Happy child of liberty!
Hunger never shall distress thee
While my meals one crumb afford; Colds and cramps shall ne'er oppress thee, Come and share my humble board: Robin, come and live with me; Live, yet still at liberty.
ALAS! how light a cause may move
Dissension between hearts that love!-
Hearts, that the world in vain had tried,
And sorrow but more closely tied;
That stood the storm when waves were rough,
Yet in a sunny hour fall off:-
Like ships that have gone down at sea,
When heaven is all tranquillity!
A something light as air-a look-
A word unkind, or wrongly taken-
Oh! love, that tempests never shook,
A breath, a touch like this, hath shaken.
And ruder words will soon rush in,
To spread the breach that words begin;
And eyes forget the gentle ray
They wore in courtship's smiling day;
And voices lose the tone that shed
A tenderness round all they said;
Till, fast declining, one by one,
The sweetnesses of love are gone;
And hearts, so lately mingled, seem
Like broken clouds,—or like the stream
That smiling left the mountain's brow,
As though its waters ne'er could sever,
Yet, ere it reach the plain below,
Breaks into floods, that part for ever!
-THOMAS MOORE.
THE minstrel boy to the war is gone-
In the ranks of death you'll find him!
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him. "Land of song!" said the Warrior-Bard— "Though all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee."
The Minstrel fell!-but the foeman's chain Could not bring his proud soul under; The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder! And said, "No chain shall sully thee, Thou soul of love and bravery! Thy songs were made for the pure and free, They shall never sound in slavery!"
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