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4. ARAB MAIDEN'S SONG. Fly to the desert, fly with me, Qur Arab tents are rude for thee: But oh! the choice what heart can doubt Of tents with love, or thrones without ? Our rocks are rough, but smiling there Th’ acacia waves her yellow hair, Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less For flow'ring in a wilderness. Our sands are bare, but down their slope The silvery-footed antelope As gracefully and gaily springs As o'er the marble courts of kings. Then come, thy Arab maid will be The loved and lone acacia tree, The antelope, whose feet shall bless With their light sound thy loneliness. Oh! there are looks and tones that dart An instant sun-shine through the heart; As if the soul that moment caught Some treasure it through life had sought. As if the very lips and eyes, Predestined to have all our sighs And never be forgot again, Sparkled and spoke before us then. So came thy every glance and tone, When first on me they breath'd and shoud New as if brought from other spheres, Yet welcome as if loved for years ! Then fly with me, if thou hast known No other flame, nor falsely thrown A gem away, that thou hadst sworn Should ever in thy heart be worn. Come, is the love thou hast for me Is pure and fresh as mine for thee, Fresh as the fountain under ground, When first 'tis by the lapwing found.
But if for me thou dost forsake
CCXCVIII. EBEN. ELLIOTT, 1781-1847
TO THE BRAMBLE.
Wild bramble of the brake!
I love it for his sake.
O'er all the fragrant bowers,
Thy satin-threaded flowers ;
That cannot feel how fair,
Thy tender blossoms are !
How rich thy branchy stem !
And thou sing'st hymns to them;
And 'mid the general hush,
Lone whispering through the bush!
The hawthorn flower is dead;
Hath laid her weary head ;
In all their beauteous power,
And boyhood's blossomy hour.
Scorned bramble of the brake! once moro
Thou bidd'st me be a boy,
In freedom and in joy.
1. THE SEASONS. When Spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing
soil; When Summer's balmy showers refresh the mower's toil ; When Winter binds in frosty chains the fallow and the In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns his Maker good, The birds that wake the morning, and those that love
the shade, The winds that sweep the mountain or lull the drowsy
glade; The sun that from his amber bower rejoiceth on his way, The moon and stars, their Master's name in silent pomp
display. Shall man, the lord of Nature, expectant of the sky, Shall man, alone unthankful, his little praise deny? No, let the year forsake his course, the seasons cease to be, Thee, Master, must we always love, and, Saviour, honour
Thee. The flowers of Spring may wither, the hope of Summer
fade, The Autumn droop in Winter, the birds forsake the
shade; The winds be lulld—the sun and moon forget their old
decree, But we in Nature's latest hour, O Lord! will cling to Thee.
Not, when fierce Conquest urg'd the onwarà war,
Let Sinai tell—for she beheld his might,
From India's coral strand,
Roll down their golden sand;
From many a balmy plain,
Their land from error's chain.
Blow soft on Ceylon's isle,
And only man is vile;
The gifts of God are strown,
Bows down to wood and stone.
With wisdom from on high,
The lamp of life deny ?
The joyful sound proclaim,
Til each remotest nation
Aas learnt Messiah's name.
And you, ye waters, roll,
It spreads from pole to pole!
The lamb for sinners slain,
In bliss returns to reigy.
THE POOR FLY.
So, so, you are running away, Mr Fly,
too bigh; There, there, I have caught you, you can't get away: Never mind, my old fellow, I'm only in play. Oh Charles! cruel Charles ! you have kill’d the poor fly, You have pinch'd him so hard, he is going to die: His legs are all broken, and he cannot stand; There, now he is fallen down dead in
hand! I hope you are sorry for what you have done : kill many flies, but you
cannot make one. No, you can't set it up, as I told you before, It is dead, and it never will stand any more. Poor thing! as it buzz'd up and down on the glass, How little it thought what was coming to pass ! For it could not have guessed, as it frisk'd in the sun, That a child would destroy it for nothing but fun. Tlie spider, who weaves his fine cobweb so neat, Might have caught him, indeed, for he wants him to eat; But the
flies must learn to keep out of your way, As you kill them for nothing at all but your play.
CCCI. ANN TAYLOR, 178*—18**
A VERY SORROWFUL STORY.