Caught from the early sobbings of the morn. Born of the very sigh that silence heaves; Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim, Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves. As though the fanning wings of Mercury Of luxuries bright, milky, soft, and rosy. A bush of May-flowers with the bees about them; And let a lush laburnum oversweep them, And let long grass grow round the roots, to keep them A filbert-edge with wild-brier overtwined, That with a score of bright-green brethren shoots Round which is heard a spring head of clear waters, By infant hands left on the path to die. Open afresh your round of starry folds, Ye ardent marigolds! Dry up the moisture from your golden lids, For great Apollo bids That in these days your praises should be sung On many harps, which he has lately strung; Here are sweet-peas, on tiptoe for a flight, JOHN KEATS. TO THE SWEET-BRIER. Our sweet autumnal western-scented wind In all the blooming waste it left behind, The poor girl's pathway; by the poor man's door. I love it, for it takes its untouch'd stand And e'en its fragrant leaf has not its mate Among the perfumes which the rich and great Bring from the odors of the spicy East. You love your flowers and plants, and will you hate That freshest will awake, and sweetest go to rest? J. G. C. BRainard. THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE. Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, No roving foot shall crush thee here, By Nature's self in white array'd, Smit with those charms that must decay, Unpitying frosts and Autumn's power From morning suns and evening dews or when you die you are the same; PHILIP FRENEAU, 1752-1832. WILD FLOWERS. I dreamed that, as I wander'd by the way, And gentle odors led my steps astray, Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, But kiss'd it and then fled, as thou mightest in a dream. There grew pied wind-flowers and violets, Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth, Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine, Green cowbind and the moonlight-color❜d May, With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray, And nearer to the river's trembling edge There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with white, And starry river buds among the sedge, And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge With moonlight beams of their own watery light; And bulrushes and reeds of such deep green As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen. Methought that of these visionary flowers I made a nosegay, bound in such a way I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come, P. B. SHELLEY. BEAU AND THE LILY. "I must tell you a feat of my dog Beau. Walking by the river side, I observed some water-lilies floating at a little distance from the bank. They are a large white flower, with an orange-colored eye, very beautiful I had a desire to gather one, and, having your long cane in my hand, by the help of it endeavored to bring one of them within my reach. But the attempt proved vain, and I walked forward. Beau had all the while observed me very attentively. Returning soon after toward the same place, I observed him plunge into the river, while I was about forty yards distant from him; and, when I had nearly reached the spot, he swam to land, with a lily in his mouth, which he came and laid at my feet." W. CowPER to Lady Hesketh, June 27th, 1788. FLOWERS. We are the sweet flowers, Born of sunny showers, (Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty saith ;) Of some unknown delight, We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple breath : We befit all places: Unto sorrow we give smiles—and unto graces, races Mark our ways, how noiseless All, and sweetly voiceless, Though the March-winds pipe, to make our passage clear; Where our small seed dwells, Nor is known the moment green, when our tips appear. We thread the earth in silence, In silence build our bowers And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh a-top, sweet flowers. The dear lumpish baby, Humming with the May-bee, Hails us with his bright star, stumbling through the grass; On a night in June, Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the bridegroom pass. Age, the wither'd clinger, On us mutely gazes, And wraps the thought of his last bed in his childhood's daisies. See (and scorn all duller Taste) how heav'n loves color; How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and green; What sweet thoughts she thinks Of violets and pinks, And a thousand flushing hues, made solely to be seen: See her whitest lilies Chill the silver showers, And what a red mouth is her rose, the woman of her flowers. |