The Dial of Flowers.

203

The Dial of Flowers.

BY MRS HEMANS.

This dial was, I believe, formed by Linnæus, and marked the hours by the opening and closing, at regular intervals, of the flowers arranged in it.

VAS a lovely thought to mark the hours,

'TWAS

As they floated in light away,

By the opening and the folding flowers

That laugh to the summer's day.

Thus had each moment its own rich hue,
And its graceful cup or bell,

In whose colour'd vase might sleep the dew,
Like a pearl in an ocean-shell.

To such sweet signs might the time have flow'd

In a golden current on,

Ere from the garden, man's first abode,
The glorious guests were gone.

So might the days have been brightly told-
Those days of song and dreams-
When shepherds gather'd their flocks of old
By the blue Arcadian streams.

So in those isles of delight, that rest
Far off in a breezeless main,

Which many a bark, with a weary quest,
Has sought, but still in vain.

Yet is not life, in its real flight,
Mark'd thus-even thus-on earth,
By the closing of one hope's delight,
And another's gentle birth?

Oh let us live, so that flower by flower,
Shutting in turn, may leave

A lingerer still for the sunset hour,
A charm for the shaded eve.

Sonnet.

N

THE FIRST-BORN.

BY ALARIC A. WATTS.

EVER did music sink into my soul

So "silver sweet,” as when thy first weak wail
On my rapt ear in doubtful murmurs stole,
Thou child of love and promise !—What a tale
Of hopes and fears, of gladness and of gloom,
Hung on that slender filament of sound!
Life's guileless pleasures, and its griefs profound,
Seem'd mingling in thy horoscope of doom.
Thy bark is launch'd, and lifted is thy sail
Upon the weltering billows of the world;
But oh, may winds far gentler than have hurl'd
My struggling vessel on, for thee prevail !

Or, if thy voyage must be rough, mayst thou

Soon 'scape the storm, and be—as bless'd as I am now!

Stanzas for Music.

205

Stanzas for music.

BY THE REV. THOMAS DALE.

AGAIN the flowers we loved to twine

Wreathe wild round every tree;

Again the summer sunbeams shine,
That cannot shine on thee.
Verdure returns with fresher bloom
To vale and mountain brow;
All nature breaks as from the tomb;
But-"Where art thou ?"

At eve to sail upon the tide,

To roam along the shore,

So sweet while thou wert at my side,
Can now delight no more.

There is in heaven, and o'er the flood,

The same deep azure now;

The same notes warble through the wood;
But-"Where art thou?"

Men say there is a voice of mirth
In every grove and glen;

But sounds of gladness on the earth

I cannot know again.

The rippling of the summer sea,

The bird upon the bough,

All speak with one sad voice to me; 'Tis "Where art thou?"

An Invocation to Birds.

BY BARRY CORNWALL.

~OME, all ye feathery people of mid air,

Who sleep 'midst rocks, or on the mountain

summits

Lie down with the wild winds; and ye who build
Your homes amidst green leaves by grottoes cool;
And ye who on the flat sands hoard your eggs
For suns to ripen, come !-O phoenix rare!
If death hath spared, or philosophic search
Permit thee still to own thy haunted nest,
Perfect Arabian-lonely nightingale !
Dusk creature, who art silent all day long,
But when pale eve unseals thy clear throat, loosest
Thy twilight music on the dreaming boughs,
Until they waken;-and thou, cuckoo bird,
Who art the ghost of sound, having no shape
Material, but dost wander far and near,
Like untouch'd echo whom the woods deny
Sight of her love,—come all to my slow charm!
Come thou, sky-climbing bird, wakener of morn,
Who springest like a thought unto the sun,
And from his golden floods dost gather wealth,
(Epithalamium and Pindarique song,)
And with it enrich our ears;-come all to me,
Beneath the chamber where my lady lies,
And, in your several musics, whisper-Love!

The Mother's Lament for her Son.

207

The Mother's Lament for her Son.

Y child was beautiful and brave,

MY

An opening flower of spring—
He moulders in a distant grave,
A cold forgotten thing.
Forgotten! ay, by all but me,
As e'en the best beloved must be,

Farewell! farewell, my dearest !

Methinks 't had been a comfort now
To have caught his parting breath,
Had I been near, from his damp brow
To wipe the dews of death-

With one long, lingering kiss, to close
His eyelids for the last repose-

Farewell! farewell, my dearest !

I little thought such wish to prove,
When cradled on my breast,
With all a mother's cautious love,
His sleeping lids I press'd;
Alas! alas! his dying head

Was pillow'd on a colder bed—

Farewell! farewell, my dearest !

They told me, victory's laurels wreathed
His youthful temples round;

That "Victory" from his lips was breathed

The last exulting sound

Cold comfort to a mother's ear,

Who long'd his living voice to hear!—

Farewell! farewell, my dearest!