They were gathered for a bridal! And now, now they are dying; Of broken faith is sighing. And not like her's who wore them; THE ROSE. SPENSER. Ah! see the virgin rose, how sweetly she Doth first peep forth with bashful modesty, That fairer seems the less ye see her way! Lo! see soon after, how more bold and free Her baréd bosom she doth broad display; Lo! see soon after, how she fades and falls away. 10 THE WILLOW. How beautifully touching the lament of the captive daughters ok Jerusalem. Those who led them captive from their hallowed clime, the city of their God, asked of them one of Zion's songs: but their heart wa too sad for melody, their joys had departed, their native songs were hushed. They hung on the drooping willow's bough the harps of Israe, như sitting beneath its shade, wept when' they remembered Zion.' MRS. HEMANS. Many a swan-like song to thee Hath been sung, thou gentle tree! Many a lute its last lament Down thy moonlight stream hath sent; Therefore, wave and murmur on! And for tuneful voices fled, And for love whose heart hath bled, Ever, willow, willow! THE HYACINTH. According to mythologists, the HYACINTH sprung from the blood of Hyacinthus, who was beloved by Apollo and Zephyr, but, prefering the regard of the former, incurred the jealous envy of the latter. Zephyr applied his strongest breath to a quoit, which turned from its course as It passed from Apollo's hand, smiting the head of Hyacinthus. Apollo mourned his loss, and changed his blood into the flower which bears his name. A pretty poetic effusion comes under our notice, under the simple signature of Ann,' said to be a production from the pen of a country girl in Ireland.' O! mournful, graceful, sapphire-colored flower, That keepest thine eye forever fixed on earth! Gentle and sad, a foe thou seem'st to mirth What secret sorrow makes thee thus to lower? Perhaps 't is that thy place thou can'st not change, And thou art pining at thy prisoned lot: But, oh! where could'st thou find a sweeter spot, Wert thou permitted earth's wide bounds to range? In pensive groves, meet temple for thy form, Where, with her silvery music, doth intrude The lucid stream, where nought unkind or rude Durst break of harmony the hallowed chain, Chy beauties, all unseen by vulgar eyes, Sol, in his brightness, still delights to view; He clothes thy petals in his glorious hue, fo show how much of old he did thee prize. Ard what the sighing zephyr hither brings, And, sweetest flower, methinks thou hast forgiven Him, who unconsciously did cause thy death: For soon as thou hadst yielded up thy breath, With grief for thee his frantic soul was riven. And thou wert placed where mingle wave and breeze Their dreamy music with the vocal choir, Whose varied harmonies might seem a lyre, Striving with dying notes thy soul to please — Where winter ne'er ungraciously presumes To touch thee with his sacrilegious handWhere thy meek handmaids are the dews so bland Where spring around thee spreads her choicest blooms. 'T is not revenge nor pining wretchedness, E'en, while I pay this tributary praise, Methinks a deeper tinge thy cheek doth flush; What, lovely one, need make thee thus to blush And turn away from my enraptured gaze! No gentle hyacinth, thou can'st not grieve, When things so lovely worship in thy trainThe sun, the wind, the wave-O, it were vain To sum the homage which thou dost receive. The sad and musing poetess you cheer At sight of thee Memory's electric wings Waft to her soul long, long forgotten thingsLoved voices hushed in death she seems to hear. PERCIVAL. A hyacinth lifted its purple bell And a starry circle crowned it; The deep blue tincture that robed it, seemed The gloomiest garb of sorrow, As if on its eyes no brightness beamed, And it never in clearer moments dreamed |