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THE DEAD LEAF.
Were I a trembling leaf,
On yonder stately tree, After a season, gay and brief,
Condemned to fade and flee; I shou i be loth to fall
Besi.le the common way, Weltering in mire, and spurned by all,
Till trodden down to clay.
All on a bed of grass ;
And idly rot in mass.
My thin and withered face
A mummy of my race.
Might I be left to fly,
A waif of earth and sky;
Curled like a fairy boat, As through the changes of a dream,
To the world's end to float. Who that hath ever been,
Could bear to be no more?
Yet who would tread again the sceno
He trod through life before?
Man's spirit will move on;
It is not quenched, but gone.
The Saviour, in the sermon on the mount, uses the language which is so often quoted, and which falls at each hearing with newer, sweeter interest upon the ear.
The King of glory points not to the vast assemblage of worlds, which are rolling on in their course above; he tells not of their peopled isles, nor of the powers exerted by his all-powerful hand, in keeping those countless ones in place, but points to the simple lily of the field, sweet emblem of the purity which should rcign in every breast, and bids the erring sons of man learn lessons from that simple flower. • Consider,' is his touching language, the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin. And yet I say unto you that Solomon, in all his glory, was aot arrayed like one of these.'
The lily of the valley, with its snow-white, drooping bells, emblems returning happiness. It is one of Flora's sweetest, chastest children, seeking the shade, as if it feared the glances from the king of day might cause a blush to spread its pale cheek.
There is a pale and modest flower,
In garb of green arrayed,
And blossoms in the glade;
In gaudy splendor drest,
I love the lily best.
THE WITHERED LEAF.
Swept from thy parent bough,
• Forsooth, I cannot say !
My sole and only stay.
Westward and north since morning's daw.
The sport alike of every gale,
The mountain's summit, and the dale -
LOVE'S WITHERED FLOWERS.
These faded flowers a softer gr af
Than blooming ones beget;
The tints that linger yet;
The morn they had their fragrant birth,
The wild shrubs where they grew, The bee, that in its matin mirth,
Hung o'er their pearls of dew, Must share alike the floweret's lot, And be with frailer things forgot
Not thus with thee in that dim day,
When like the breath of flowers,
For love in those lone hours,
And in a brighter, purer sphere,
Beyond the sunless tomb,
In fadeless life shall bloom ;
SONNET TO SEPTEMBER.
While not a leaf seems faded – while the fields,
Hlave ruled your hours;