So may my spirit cast Have leave to ponder! And, should'st thou 'scape control, But, if earth's pains will rise, THE OLD ARM CHAIR. ELIZA COOK. I LOVE it, I love it! and who shall dare I've bedew'd it with tears, I've embalm'd it with sighs. 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart; Not a tie will break, not a link will start; Would you know the spell ?-a mother sat there ! And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. In childhood's hour I linger'd near The hallow'd seat with listening ear; And gentle words that mother would give To fit me to die, and teach me to live. She told me that shame would never betide As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. I sat, and watch'd her many a day, When her eye grew dim, and her locks were grey; 'Tis past, tis past! but I gaze on it now, With quiv'ring breath and throbbing brow: 'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died, And memory flows with lava tide. Say it is folly, and deem me weak, Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek; But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear OH! a dainty plant is the Ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old! Of right choice food are his meals I ween, The walls must be crumbled, the stones decay'd, To pleasure his dainty whim; And the mould'ring dust that years have made, Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy green. Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings How closely he twineth, how tight he clings, And he joyously twines and hugs around Whole ages have fled, and their works decay'd, And nations scatter'd been; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green. For the stateliest building man can raise, Creeping where no life is seen, THE WILD CHERRY-TREE. BARRY CORNWALL. Oн,-there never was yet so pretty a thing, Nothing that ever so merrily grew, Up from the ground when the skies were blue, Nothing so fresh-nothing so free As thou-my wild, wild Cherry-tree! Jove! how it danced in the gusty breeze! 'Twas the same to my wild, wild Cherry-tree ! Never at rest, like a thing that's young, Abroad to the winds its arms it flung, Shaking its rich and crownéd head. Back I fly to the days gone by, THE BUD IS ON THE BOUGH. FRANCIS BENNOCH. "THE bud is on the bough, And the blossom on the tree;" But the bud and the blossom Bring no joyousness to me. Wall'd up within the city's gloom, No pleasure can I know, But like a cagéd linnet sing The bud will grow a blossom, The blossom will grow pale, And as they die the fruit will spring, In every wind that blows, And I, unripe, with ripest fruit, May in the dust repose. But Spring upon the seed will breathe, Shall bud and blossom be; FAIR FLOWER! FAIR FLOWER! W. T. MONCRIEFF. FAIR flower! fair flower! Though thou seem'st so proudly growing, Dear flower! dear flower! Thou 'rt past the dew's recalling; We shall live but to deplore thee, Poor flower! poor flower! No aid now to health can win thee; Turning thy young heart's gladness Wan flower! wan flower! Than all behind thee staying! But vain, alas! is now our sighing, |