THE IVY. BARTON. Hast thou seen, in winter's stormiest day, Not dead, but sinking in slow decay Round which a luxuriant ivy had grown, And wreathed it with verdure no longer its own. Perchance thou hast seen this sight; and then, As I at thy years might do, Passed carelessly by, nor turned again That scathéd wreck to view. But now I can draw from that mouldering tree, Thoughts which are soothing and dear to me. O, smile not! nor think it a worthless thing, Should aught be unlovely which thus can shed -Catch the neighbor shrub With clasping tendrils, and invest his branch, COWPER. THE BROKEN FLOWER. MRS. HEMANS. O, wear it on thy heart, my love! Sweetness is lingering in its leaves, Yet, for the sake of what hath been, 'T was born to grace a summer scene, A little while around thee, love! A fair, though faded thing. But not even that warm heart hath power O, I am like thy broken flower, Ye are the stars of earth, - and dear to me Is each small twinkling gem, that wanders free, 'Mid glade or woodland, or by murmuring stream. MISS TWAMLEY. THE PASSION FLOWER. A tear, unbidden, starts when we view this emblem of religious fervor, for though we follow not the superstitious, yet we feel a sympathy in tracing in it the mysterious emblem of the Saviour's passion. ANON. All beauteous flower! whose centre glows A rich expanse of varying hue, And streaked with young Pomona's green. High o'er the pointal, decked with gold, (Emblem mysterious to behold!) A radiant cross its form expands; Its opening arms appear to embrace The whole collective human race, Refuse of all men, in all lands. Imperial passion flower! Whatever impulse first conferred that name, I freely own its spirit-touching claim, With thoughts and feelings it may well impart. BARTON. THE QUEEN OF THE GARDEN. MOORE. If Jove would give the leafy bowers Till, glowing with the wanton's play, Of all flowers, Methinks a rose is best. * * * It is the very emblem of a maid; For when the west wind courts her gently, How modestly she blows, and paints the sun With her chaste blushes! When the north comes near her, Rude and impatient, then, like chastity, She locks her beauties in her bud again, And leaves him to base briers. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. THE LAST WISH. MRS. HEMANS. 'Well may I weep to leave this world-theeall these beautiful woods, and plains, and hills.' Go to the forest shade Seek thou the well known glade, Where, heavy with sweet dew, the violets lie; Like dark eyes filled with sleep, And bathed in hues of summer's midnight sky. Bring me their buds, to shed Around my dying bed A breath of May, and of the wood's repose; With a reluctant heart, That fain would linger where the bright sun glows. Well know'st thou that fair tree A murmur of the bee Dwells ever in the honeyed lime above; Of all its clustering shower For on that spot we first revealed our love. Gather one woodbine bough, Then, from the lattice low |