THE PRIMROSE.

MRS. HUNTER.

The sun declines, his parting ray
Shall bear the cheerful light away,
And on the landscape close:
Then will I seek the lonely vale,
Where sober evening's primrose pale
To greet the night-star blows.

Soft melancholy bloom, to thee
I turn, with conscious sympathy,
Like thee my hour is come;

Where lengthening shadows slowly fade,
Till lost in universal shade,

They sink beneath the tomb.

By thee I'll sit, and inly muse.

What are the charms in life we lose,

When time demands our breath.

Alas! the load of lengthened age
Has little can our wish engage,
Or point the shaft of death.

No, 't is alone the pang to part

With those we love, that rends the heart;

That agony to save,

Some nameless cause in nature strives;

Like thee in shades, our hope revives,

And blossoms in the grave.

TO A PRIMROSE.

BARTON.

Flowers of pale but lovely blooma,
Given to grace my humble room,
On my spirit's wakened sense
Pour thy silent eloquence.

Tales it tells of days gone by,
When in spring my boyish eye,
On the bank, or in the grove,
Gazed on thee with joy and love.

Fairer flowers which gardens bear,
Proud exotics reared with care,
Beautiful though they may be,
Never can compare with thee.

Thou art rich, from memory's store, With the wealth of life's young lore; Love by books but poorly taught, Wealth by riches never bought.

THE FLOWER GARDEN.

BARRY CORNWALL.

There the rose unveils

Her breast of beauty, and each delicate bud

O' the season comes in turn to bloom and perish. But first of all the violet, with an eye

Blue as the midnight heavens; the frail snowdrop,
Born of the breath of winter, and on his brow
Fixed, like a pale and solitary star.

The languid hyacinth and pale primrose,
And daisy, trodden down like modesty;

The foxglove, in whose drooping bells the bee
Makes her sweet music; the narcissus (named
From him who died for love), the tangled woodbine,
Lilacs, and flowering limes, and scented thorns,
And some from the voluptuous June
Catch their perfumings

THE TULIP.

Declaration of love.

We met, we met, in childhood's hour,
With many a witness nigh,

Ere we had seen life's tempests lower,
Or felt one anguished sigh,

As hand in hand, in purity,

We bowed at classic learning's shrine.

And though our hearts were bound in love,

You ne'er then asked me to be thine.

We met, we met; the glow of youth

Was mantling on thy brow;
And e'en the smile of candid truth
Seems still to linger now,

As arm in arm, beside some stream

We strayed, or 'neath some clustering vine: Although thine eye would speak the tale, You never asked me to be thine.

We met, we met; 't was manhood's hour,

There was no witness nigh,

And though we saw no tempest lower,

'Twas then you breathed a sigh.

When in that sacred hour we met,

You bowed at love's most hallowed shrine;

And where no eye but God's beheld,

You asked, I pledged thee, I'd be thine.

Why hangest thou thy maiden head

With such a coyness? Why's the rich
Blush spreading its roseate tints

O'er thy fair cheek? Is 't because I've
Told the tender tale, which within
My heart has, like a hallowed flame,
Been burning, and feeding on its
Inward light, till it no longer
Could the silent smoth'ring keep?
Then bursting forth, laden with its
Long cherished, silent eloquence,
Asking thee but to love the heart,
Which loveth thee so well? If so,
Then am I blest! for by those eves
Downcast, as if their lids were lade
With tears unshed, I find my hopes
Not blaste- but my heart received.