Imatges de pàgina
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THE CYPRESS.

THOU graceful tree,

With thy green branches drooping,
As to yon blue heaven stooping,
In meek humility.

Like one who patient grieves,
When the fierce wind's o'er thee sweeping,
Thou answerest but by weeping,

While tear-like fall thy green leaves.

When Summer flowers have birth,
And the sun is o'er thee shining,
Yet with thy slight boughs declining,
Still thou seeks't the earth.

Thy leaves are ever green:
When other trees are changing,
With the seasons o'er them ranging;
Thou art still as thou hast been.

It is not just to thee,

For painter or bard to borrow

Thy emblem as that of Sorrow;

Thou art more like Piety.

Thou wert made to wave,

Patient when Winter winds rave o'er thee,
Lowly when Summer suns restore thee,

On some Martyr's grave.

Like that Martyr thou hast given

A lesson of faith and meekness,
Of patient strength in thy weakness,
And trust in Heaven!

MISS LANDON.

THE EGLANTINE.

As pondering as I pac'd, my wandering led
To a lone river bank of yellow sand,—

The lov'd haunt of the ouzel, whose blithe wing
Wanton'd from stone to stone-and, on a mound,
Of verdurous turf with wild-flowers diamonded
(Hare-bell and lychnis, thyme and camomile,)
Sprang in the majesty of natural pride

An Englantine-the red rose of the wood,—
Its cany boughs with threatening prickles arm'd,
Rich in its blossoms and sweet-scented leaves.
The wild-rose has a nameless spell for me:
And never on the road-side do mine eyes
Behold it, but at once my thoughts revert
To schoolboy days: why so, I scarcely know
Except that once, while wandering with my mates
One gorgeous afternoon, when holiday

To Nature lent new charms-a thunderstorm
O'ertook us, cloud on cloud-a mass of black,
Dashing at once the blue sky from our view,
And spreading o'er the dim and dreary hills
A lurid mantle.

To a leafy screen
We fled of elms, and from the rushing rain
And hail found shelter, though at every

flash

Of the red lightning, brightly heralding
The thunder-peal, within each bosom died
The young heart, and the day of doom seem'd come.
At length the rent battalia clear'd away
The tempest cloven clouds; and sudden fell
A streak of joyful sunshine: on a bush
Of wild-rose fell its beauty: all was dark
Around it, still, and dismal; but the beam
(Like Hope sent down to re-illume Despair,)

Burn'd on the bush, displaying every leaf,
And bud, and blossom, with such perfect light
And exquisite splendour, that since then my heart
Hath deem'd it Nature's favourite, and mine eyes
Fall on it never, but that thought recurs,

And memories of the bye-past, sad and sweet.

D. M. MOIR.

The Eglantine or Sweet-Briar, Rosa rubiginosa, is very frequently cultivated in our gardens on account of the delightful fragrance of its leaves, which has been compared to that of a ripe apple. Milton, in his L' Allegro, where he speaks of the "twisted eglantine," seems to confound it with the honeysuckle, Lonicera Periclymenum, the true woodbine of Poets. Our great dramatic Bard thus introduces it in his Cymbeline, iv. 2 :—

With fairest flowers

Whilst Summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele,

I'll sweeten thy sad grave. Thou shalt not lack

The flower that 's like thy face, pale primrose; nor
The azur'd hare-bell, like thy veins; no, nor
The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander,
Out-sweeten'd not thy breath.

THE THREE CHAPLETS.

I.

THE garland long ago was worn,
As time pleas'd to bestow it,
The laurel only to adorn

The conqueror and the poet.

The palm is due, who, uncontroll'd,

On danger looking gravely,

When fate had done the worst it could,

Who bore his fortunes bravely.

Most worthy of the oaken wreath

The ancients him esteemed,
Who in a battle had from death
Some man of worth redeemed.
About his temples grass they tie,
Himself that so behaved

In some strong siege by th' enemy
A city that hath saved.

A wreath of vervain heralds wear
Amongst our garlands named,

Being sent that dreadful news to bear,
Offensive war proclaimed.

The sign of peace who first displays,
The olive wreath possesses:

The lover with the myrtle sprays
Adorns his crisped tresses.
In love the sad forsaken wight
The willow-garland weareth:
The funeral man, befitting night,
The baleful cypress weareth.
To Pan we dedicate the pine,
Whose slips the shepherd graceth :
Again, the ivy and the vine
On his swoll'n Bacchus placeth.*

II.

Here damask roses, white and red,
Out of my lap first take I,

Which still shall run along the thread,

My chiefest flower this make I:
Amongst these roses in a row,

Next place I pinks in plenty,

These double daisies then for show,

*Spenser has well pourtrayed the various uses and qualities of Trees, in his Faerie Queene :

Much can they praise the trees so straight and hy,

The sayling pine; the cedar proud and tall;

The vine-propp elme; the poplar never dry;
The builder oake, sole king of forests all;

The aspine good for staves; the cypresse funerall;
The laurell, meed of mightie conquerours
And poets sage; the firre that weepeth still;
The willow, worne of forlorne paramoures;
The eugh, obedient to the bender's will;

The birch for shaftes; the sallow for the mill;
The mirrhe sweet-bleeding in the bitter wound;
The warlike beech; the ash for nothing ill;
The fruitful olive; and the platane round;

The carver holme; the maple seldom inward sound.

B B

And will not this be dainty?
The pretty pansy then I'll tye
Like stones some chain inchasing;
And next to them their near ally,
The purple violet placing.

The curious choice clove July-flower,
Whose kinds hight the carnation,
For sweetness of most sovereign power
Shall help my wreath of fashion:
A course of cowslips then I'll stick,
And here and there (though sparely)
The pleasant primrose down I prick,
Like pearls, which will show rarely:
Then with these marygolds I'll make
My garland somewhat swelling,
These honeysuckles then I'll take,
Whose sweets shall help their smelling.
The lily and the flower-de-lis,
For colour much contenting,

For that, I them do only prize,
They are but poor in scenting.
The daffadil most dainty is
To match with these in meetness;
The columbine compar'd to this,
All much alike for sweetness;
These in their natures only are
Fit to emboss the border,
Therefore I'll take especial care
To place them in their order;

Sweet-williams, campions, sops-in-wine,*
One by another neatly :

* A fanciful name given to pinks or gilliflowers, which were of old used at weddings and presented to the bride. Spenser, in his Shepherd's Kalendar, says,

Bring coronations and sops in wine,
Worne by paramoures.

Or, perhaps it may be derived from being put into wine to give it an agreeable

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