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G. W. DOANE.
In bower and garden rich and rare
Not so the simple forest-leaf,
The same through all its little life-
Be such, and only such, my friends;
No, let the eagle change his plume,
THE SMALL CELANDINE.
There is a flower, the lesser celandine,
That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain ; And, the first moment that the sun may shine, Bright as the sun itself, 't is out again.
When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm,
Or blasts the green field and the trees distressed, Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm,
In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest.
But lately, one rough day, this flower I passed, And recognized it, though an altered form, Now standing forth an offering to the blast, And buffeted at will by rain and storm.
I stopped, and said, with inly-muttered voice,
The sunshine may not bless it, nor the dew;
Stiff in its members, withered, changed of hue.' And, in my spleen I smiled that it was gray.
TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN.
Thou blossom bright with autumn dew And colored with the heaven's own blue, Thou openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night.
Thou comest not when violets lean
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.
Thou waitest late, and com'st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, And frosts and shortening days portend The aged year is near its end.
Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
I would that thus, when I shall see
A FLOWER FROM MOUNT VERNON.
MIES L. P. SMITH.
Bright blossom! thou hast breathed the air Around our hero's tomb
What do the night-winds murmur there,
A dirge above the sleeping one,
Of giant heart and arm?
Above a race of glory run,
Whose memory has a charm
To thrill young hearts, and lift them up
Sneds not the moon in radiance there
Look not the stars with smiles more fair,
From off the brow of night?
Send not the dews, which bathe that steep,
A fragrant incense round,
As they were sacred tears, to weep
O'er fame that death has crowned? Didst thou not bow thy head, bright gem
Of Nature's peerless diadem,
O'er him who sleeps in glory there,
The Wanderer and the Night Flowers.
Call back your odors, lovely flowers,
And fold your leaves till the laughing hours
The lark lies couched in her grassy nest,
And the honey-bee is gone,
And all bright things are away to rest,
Is not your world a mournful one
When your sisters close their eyes,
And your soft breath meets not a lingering tone Of song in the starry skies?
Take ye no joy in the day-spring's birth,
When it kindles the sparks of dew,
And the thousand strains of the forest's mirth, Shall they gladden all but you?
Shut your sweet bells till the fawn comes out
And the woodland child, with a fairy shout,