A chaplet of Monkshood she pluck'd for her head,
And Rosemary sprigs for the graves of the dead.
Tiptoe o'er the level plain
Ardent Hope all panting flew,
Prompt her eager eye to strain,
Far beyond the present view :
Quick from hint to hint to stray,
She the Primrose held most dear;
First-born of returning May,
Promise of the future year.
Ill-nature to a corner stole
And taught her blood-shot eyes to roll,
As if she longed to blight
Each flower of happier scent and hue;
For none she chose of all that grew,
Save poisonous Aconite.
Hand in hand, for they never asunder are seen,
All cheerful their features, all easy their mien,
Contentment and Innocence tript it along:
By the soft virgin Snowdrop was Innocence known,
Contentment took Heartsease, and call'd it her own,
Nor envied the great, nor the gay in the throng.
The throng!-just hint to wild conceit like mine!-
Why, what a wreath had I begun to twine!
Indulgent as she was, methinks I hear
Ev'n Fancy's self now whisper in my ear,
“Quit ere 'tis tedious, quit the flowery road,
"Nor what was meant a nosegay, make a load."
MR. BISHOP, Master of the Merchant Tailors
School, 1796.
LET me live harmlessly, and near the brink Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place, Where I may see my quill, or cork, down sink,
With eager bite of pike, or bleak, or dace;
And on the world and my Creator think: Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace;
And others spend their time in base ex
Of wine, or worse, in war, or wanton
Let them that will, these pastimes still pursue,
And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill;
So I the fields and meadows green may view,
And daily by fresh rivers walk at will,
Among the daisies and the violets blue,
Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil.
"When I would beget content," says the enthusiastic Isaac Walton, "and increase confidence in the power and wisdom and providence of Almighty God, I will walk the meadows by some gliding stream, and there contemplate the lilies that take no care, and those very many other living creatures that are not only created, but fed (man knows not how) by the goodness of the God of nature, and therefore trust in him."
YE Birds that fly through the fields of air,
What lessons of wisdom and truth ye bear;
Ye would teach our souls from the earth to rise;
Ye would bid us all grovelling scenes despise.
Ye would tell us that all its pursuits are vain,
That pleasure is toil-ambition is pain,—
That its bliss is touched with a poisoning leaven,
Ye would teach us to fix our aim in heaven.
Beautiful Birds of lightsome wing,
Bright creatures that come with the voice of Spring;
We see you array'd in the hues of the morn,
Yet ye dream not of pride, and ye wist not of scorn!
Though rainbow-splendour around you glows,
Ye vaunt not the beauty which nature bestows:
Oh! what a lesson for glory are ye,
How ye preach the grace of humility.
Swift Birds, that skim o'er the stormy deep,
Who steadily onward your journey keep,
Who neither for rest nor for slumber stay,
But
press still forward, by night or day—
As in your unwearying course ye fly
Beneath the clear and unclouded sky;
Oh! may we, without delay, like you,
The path of duty and right pursue.
Sweet Birds, that breathe the spirit of song,
And surround Heaven's gate in melodious throng,
Who rise with the earliest beams of day,
Your morning tribute of thanks to pay,
You remind us that we should likewise raise
The voice of devotion and song of praise;
There's something about you that points on high,
Ye beautiful tenants of earth and sky!
NATURE'S HARMONY.
DID He not form the peasant's visual sphere,
To catch each charm that crowns the chequer'd year?
Construct his ear to seize the passing sound,
From wind, or wave, or wing, or whistle, round;
From breathing breeze, or tempest's awful roar;
Soft lisping rills, or ocean's thundering shore;
Unnumber'd notes that fill the echoing field,
Or mingled minstrelsy the woodlands yield;
The melting strains and melodies of song
That float, impassion'd, from the human tongue?
Or fondly feel each sound that sweetly slips
Through ear to heart, from favourite lover's lips;
And trace the nicer harmony that springs
From puny gnats' shrill-sounding treble wings;
Light fly's sharp counter; bee's strong tenor tone;
Huge hornet's bass, and beetle's drowsy drone ;
Grasshopper's open shake, quick twittering all the day,
Or cricket's broken chirp, that chimes the night away?
REFLECTED on the lake I love
To see the stars of evening glow,
So tranquil in the Heaven above,
So restless on the wave below.
Thus Heavenly hope is all serene :
But earthly hope how bright soe'er,
Still fluctuates o'er this changing scene,
As false, as fleeting as 'tis fair.
C. H. TOWNSHEND.
THE SWALLOW'S RETURN.
WELCOME, Welcome, feathered stranger,
Now the sun bids nature smile;
Safe arrived, and free from danger,
Welcome to our blooming isle !
Still twitter on my lowly roof,
And hail me at the dawn of day,
Each morn the recollected proof
Of time that ever fleets away.
Fond of sunshine, fond of shade,
Fond of skies serene and clear,
Ev'n transient storms thy joy invade
In fairest seasons of the year:
What makes thee seek a milder clime,
What bids thee shun the wintry gale,
How know'st thou thy departing time?
Hail! wondrous bird! hail, Swallow, hail!
Sure something more to thee is given,
Than myriads of the feathered race,
Some gift divine, some spark from heaven,
That guides thy flight from place to place:
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