DAFFODILS.

I WANDERED lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden Daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle in the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company;
I gazed and gazed, but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought!

For oft when on my couch I lie,
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.

WORDSWORTH.

THE ROSE.

Go, lovely Rose!
Tell her that wastes her time on me,
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that’s young.
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung
In deserts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.

Then die, that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair,

Yet, though thou fade,
From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise
And teach the maid
That goodness Time’s rude hand defies;
That virtue lives when beauty dies.

WALLER.

THE SENSITIVE PLANT.

A SENSITIVE Plant in a garden grew,
And the young winds fed it with silver dew,
And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light,
And closed them beneath the kisses of Night.

But none ever trembled and panted with bliss
In the garden, the field, or the wilderness,
Like doe in the noontide with love’s sweet want,
As the companionless Sensitive Plant.

The snowdrop, and then the violet,
Arose from the ground with warm rain wet,
And their breath was mixed with fresh odour, sent,
From the turf, like the voice and the instrument.

Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip tall,
And narcissi, the fairest among them all,
Who gaze on their eyes in the stream’s recess,
Till they die of their own dear loveliness.

And the naiad-like lily of the vale.
Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale,
That the light of its tremulous bells is seen
Through their pavilions of tender green;

And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue,
Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew
Of music so delicate, soft and intense,
It was felt like an odour within the sense!

And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest,
Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast,
Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air
The soul of her beauty and love lay bare;

And the wand-like lily, which lifted up,
As a Maenad, its moonlight-coloured cup,
Till the fiery star, which is its eye,
Gazed through the clear dew on the tender sky;

And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose,
The sweetest flower for scent that blows;
And all rare blossoms from every clime
Grew in that garden in perfect prime.

The Sensitive Plant, which could give small fruit
Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the root,
Received more than all [flowers], it loved more than ever,
Where none wanted but it, could belong to the giver

For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower;
Radiance and odour are not its dower;
It loves, even like Love its deep heart is full,
It desires what it has not, the beautiful!

Each and all like ministering angels were
For the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to bear.
Whilst the lagging hours of the day went by
Like windless clouds o’er a tender sky.

And when evening descended from heaven above,
And the earth was all rest, and the air was all love,
And delight, though less bright, was far more deep,
And the day’s veil fell from the world of sleep,

The Sensitive Plant was the earliest
Up-gathered into the bosom of rest;
A sweet child weary of its delight,
The feeblest, and yet the favourite,
Cradled within the embrace of night.

SHELLEY.

O LUVE WILL VENTURE IN, &c.

TUNE "The Posie."

O LUVE will venture in, where it daur na weel be seen,
O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has been;
But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae green,
And a’ to pu’ a posie to my ain dear May.

The primrose I will pu’, the firstling o’ the year,
And I will pu’ the pink, the emblem o’ my dear,
For she’s the pink o’ womankind, and blooms without a peer;
And a’ to be a posie to my ain dear May.

I’ll pu’ the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view,
For it’s like a baumy kiss o’ her sweet bonnie mou;
The hyacinth’s for constancy w’ its unchanging blue,
And a’ to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair.
And in her lovely bosom I’ll place the lily there;
The daisy’s for simplicity and unaffected air,
And a’ to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The hawthorn I will pu’, wi’ its locks o’ siller grey,
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o’ day,
But the songster’s nest within the bush I winna tak away;
And a’ to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The woodbine I will pu’ when the e’ening star is near,
And the diamond-drops o’ dew shall be her e’en sae clear:
The violet’s for modesty which weel she fa’s to wear,
And a’ to be a posie to my ain dear May.

I’ll tie the posie round w’ the silken band o’ luve,
And I’ll place it in her breast, and I’ll swear by a’ above,
That to my latest draught o’ life the band shall ne’er remuve.
And this will be a posie to my ain dear May.

BURNS.

MY NANNIE’S AWA.

TUNE "There’ll never be peace” &c.

Now in her green mantle blithe Nature arrays.
And listens the lambkins that bleat o’er the braes,
While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw;
But to me it’s delightless my Nannie’s awa.

The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn,
And violets bathe in the weet o’ the morn;
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw,
They mind me o’ Nannie and Nannie’s awa.

Thou lav’rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn,
The shepherd to warn o’ the grey-breaking dawn,
And thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa’,
Give over for pity my Nannie ’s awa.

Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey,
And sooth me wi’ tidings o’ Nature’s decay;
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw,
Alane can delight me now Nannie’s awa,

BURNS.

THEIR GROVES, &c.

TUNE "Humours of Glen."

THEIR groves o’ sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon,
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume;
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o’ green breckan,
Wi’ the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom.

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen;
For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers,
A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.

BURNS.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,

On turning one down with a plough, in April 1786.

WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow’r,
Thou’s met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang-the stoure
Thy slender stem;
To spare ihee now is past my po’w’r,
Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it’s no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie Lark, companion meet!
Bending thee ’mang the dewy weet!
Wi’ spreckled breast,
When upward-springing, blythe, to greet
The purpling east.

Could blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,
Scarce rear’d above the parent earth
Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow’rs our gardens yield.
High shell’ring woods and wa’s maun shield,
But thou beneath the random bield
O’ clod or stane,
Adorns the histie stibbte-Jleld,
Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless Maid,
Sweety flow’ret of the rural shade!
By love’s simplicity betray’d.
And guileless trust,
Till she, like thee, all soil’d, is laid
Low i’ the dust.

Such is the fate of simple Bard,
On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d!
Unskilful he to note the card
Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard.
And whelm him o’er!

Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv’n,
By human pride or cunning driv’n,
To mis’ry’s brink.
Till wrench’d of ev’ry stay but Heav’n,
He, ruin’d, sink!

Ev’n thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate,
That fate is thine no distant date;
Stern Ruin’s plough-share drives, elate.
Full on thy bloom,
Till crush’d beneath the furrow’s weight,
Shall be thy doom!

BURNS.

LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.

On the Approach of Spring.

Now Nature hangs her mantle green
On every blooming tree,
And spreads her sheets c’ daisies white
Out o’er the grassy lea;
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,
And glads the azure skies;
But nought can glad the weary wight
That fast in durance lies.

Now lav’rocks wake the merry morn,
Aloft on dewy wing;
The merle, in his noontide bow’r,
Makes woodland echoes ring;
The mavis mild wi’ many a note,
Sings drowsy day to rest:
In love and freedom they rejoice,
Wi’ care nor thrall opprest.

Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae;
The hawthorn’s budding in the glen,
And milk-white is the slae;
The meanest hind in fair Scotland
May rove their sweets amang;
But I, the Queen of a’ Scotland,
Maun lie in prison strang.

I was the Queen o’ bonnie France,
Where happy I hae been;
Fu’ lightly rase I in the morn,
As blythe lay down at e’en;
And I’m the sov’reign of Scotland,
And mony a traitor there;
Yet here I lie in foreign Lands,
And never ending care.

But as for thee, thou false woman,
My sister and my fae,
Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword
That thro thy soul shall gae:
The weeping blood in woman’s breast
Was never known to thee;
Nor th’ balm that draps on wounds of woe
Frae woman’s pitying e’e.

My son! my son! may kinder stars
Upon thy fortune shine;
And may those pleasures gild thy reign.
That ne’er wad blink on mine!
God keep thee frae thy mother’s faes,
Or turn their hearts to thee:
And where thou meet’st thy mother’s friend,
Remember him for me!

Oh! soon, to me, may summer-suns
Nae mair light up the morn!
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds
Wave o’er the yellow corn!
And in the narrow house o’ death
Let winter round me rave;
And the next flow’rs that deck the spring,
Bloom on my peaceful grave!

BURNS.

RED AND WHITE ROSES.

READ in these Roses the sad story
Of my hard fate, and your own glory;
In the white you may discover
The paleness of a fainting lover;
In the red the flames still feeding
On my heart with fresh wounds bleeding.
The white will tell you how I languish,
And the red express my anguish.
The white my innocence displaying,
The red my martyrdom betraying;
The frowns that on your brow resided,
Have those roses thus divided.
Oh! let your smiles but clear the weather,
And then they both shall grow together.

CAKEW.

SONNET.

SWEET is the rose, but growes upon a brere;
Sweet is the Juniper, but sharpe his bough;
Sweet is the Eglantine, but pricketh nere;
Sweet is the Firbloom, but his branches rough;
Sweet is the Cypress, but his rind is tough,
Sweet is the Nut, but bitter is his pill;
Sweet is the Broome-flowere, but yet sowre enough;
And sweet is Moly, but his roote is ill.
So every sweet with sowre is tempred still,
That maketh it be coveted the more:
For easie things that may be got at will,
Most sorts of men doe set but little store.
Why then should I account of little pain,
That endless pleasure shall unto me gaine?

SPENSER

TO PRIMROSES

FILLED WITH MORNING DEW.

WHY do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears
Speak grief in you,
Who were but born
Just as the modest morn
Teemed her refreshing dew?
Alas! ye have not known that shower
That mars a flower;
Nor felt the unkind
Breath of a blasting wind;
Nor are ye worn with years;
Or warped as we,
Who think it strange to see
Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young.
Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known
The reason why
Ye droop and weep,
Is it for want of sleep,
Or childish lullaby
Or that ye have not seen as yet
The violet
Or brought a kiss
From that sweetheart to this?
No, no; this sorrow shown
By your tears shed,
Would have this lecture read:
That things of greatest, so of meanest worth.
Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.

HERRICK.

A RED, RED ROSE.

TUNE “Wishaw’s favourite."

O, MY luve’s like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June:
O, my luve’s like the mélodie
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass.
So deep in hive am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt w’ the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel a while;
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.

BURNS.

VIRGINS promised when I died,
That they would each primrose-tide
Duly, morn and evening, come,
And with flowers dress my tomb.
Having promised, pay your debts,
Maids, and here strew violets.

ROBERT HERRICK.

MUSIC, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odours when sweet violets sicken,
Love within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved’s bed;
And so thy thoughts when thou art gone.
Love itself shall slumber on.

SHELLEY.

RADIANT sister of the day
Awake! arise! and come away!
To the wild woods and the plains,
To the pools where winter rains
Image all their roof of leaves,
Where the pine its garland weaves
Of sapless green, and ivy dun,
Round stems that never kiss the sun.
Where the lawns and pastures be
And the sandhills of the sea,
Where the melting hoar-frost wets
The daisy star that never sets,
And wind-flowers and violets
Which yet join not scent to hue
Crown the pale year weak and new:
When the night is left behind
In the deep east, dim and blind,
And the blue moon is over us,
And the multitudinous
Billows murmur at our feet,
Where the earth and ocean meet
And all things seem only one
In the universal sun.

P. B. SHELLEY.

TO DAFFODILS.

FAIR Daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet, the early-rising sun
Has not attained its noon.
Stay, stay,
Until the hastening day
Has run
But to the even song;
And having prayed together, we
Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay as you,
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you or any thing.
We die,
As your hours do, and dry
Away,
Like to the summer’s rain,
Or as the pearls of morning’s dew,
Ne’er to be found again.

ROBERT HERRICK.

CONSTANCY.

LAY a garland on my hearse
Of the dismal yew;
Maidens willow branches bear;
Say, I died true.
My love was false, but I was firm
From my hour of birth.
Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth!

SAMUEL FLETCHER.

MOURN, ilka grove the cushat kens!
Ye haz’lly shaws and briery dens!
Ye burnies, wimplin down your glens,
Wi’ toddlin din,
Or foaming strang, wi’ hasty stens,
Frae lin to lin.

Mourn little harebells o’er the lee;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see;
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie,
In scented bow’rs;
Ye roses on your thorny tree.
The first o’ flow’rs.

At dawn, when ev’ry grassy blade
Droops with a diamond at his head,
At ev’n, when beans their fragrance shed,
I’ th’ rustling gale,
Ye maukins whiddin thro’ the glade,
Come join my wail.

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year;
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear:
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear
Shoots up its head,
Thy gay, green, flow’ry tresses shear,
For him that’s dead!

Thou, autumn, wi’ thy yellow hair,
In grief thy sallow mantle tear!
Thou, winter, hurling thro’ the air
The roaring blast,
Wide o’er the naked world declare
The worth we’ve lost!

BURNS.

TO THE SMALL CELANDINE.

PPANSIES, Lilies, King-cups, Daisies,
Let them live upon their praises;
Long as there’s a sun that sets,
Primroses will have their glory;
Long as there are Violets,
They will have a place in story;
There’s a flower that shall be mine,
’Tis the little Celandine.

Ere a leaf is on the bush,
In the time before the thrush
Has a thought about her nest,
Thou wilt come with half a call,
Spreading out thy glossy breast
Like a careless prodigal;
Telling tales about the sun,
When we’ve little warmth, or none.

Comfort have thou of thy merit,
Kindly unassuming spirit!
Careless of thy neighbourhood,
Thou dost show thy pleasant face
On the moor, and in the wood,
In the lane there’s not a place,
Howsoever mean it be,
But ’tis good enough for thee.

Ill befall the yellow flowers,
Children of the flaring hours!
Buttercups that will be seen,
Whether we will see or no;
Others, too, of lofty mien,
They have done as worldlings do,
Taken praise that should be thine,
Little, humble Celandine!

Prophet of delight and mirth,
Ill requited upon earth;
Herald of a mighty band,
Of a joyous train ensuing,
Serving at my heart’s command,
Tasks that are no tasks renewing;
I will sing, as doth behove,
Hymns in praise of what I love!

WORDSWORTH.

TO BLOSSOMS.

FFAIR pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do ye fall so fast?
Your date is not so past,
But you may stay yet here awhile
To blush and gently smile.
And go at last.

What, were you born to be,
An hour or half’s delight,
And so to bid good-night?
’Twas pity Nature brought ye forth,
Merely to show your worth
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read, how soon things have
Their end, though ne’er so brave:
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you, awhile, they glide
Into the grave.

HERRICK.

THE LILY AND THE ROSE.

THE nymph must lose her female friend,
If more admired than she
But where will fierce contention end,
If flowers can disagree.

Within the garden’s peaceful scene
Appear’d two lovely foes,
Aspiring to the rank of queen,
The Lily and the Rose.

The Rose soon redden’d into rage,
And, swelling with disdain,
Appeal’d to many a poet’s page
To prove her right to reign.

The Lily’s height bespoke command,
A fair imperial flower;
She seem’d designed for Flora’s hand,
The sceptre of her power.

This civil bick’ring and debate
The goddess chanced to hear,
And flew to save, ere yet too late,
The pride of the parterre.

Yours is, she said, the nobler hue,
And yours the statelier mien;
And, till a third surpasses you,
Let each be deemed a queen.

Thus, soothed and reconciled, each seeks
The fairest British fair:
The seat of empire is her cheeks,
They reign united there.

COWPER.

THE WALL-FLOWER.

WHY this flower is now called so,
List, sweet maids, and you shall know.
Understand this firstling was
Once a brisk and bonny lass,
Kept as close as Danae was,
Who a sprightly springald loved;
And to have it fully proved,
Up she got upon a wall,
’Tempting down to slide withal;
But the silken twist untied,
So she fell, and, bruised, she died.
Jove, in pity of the deed,
And her loving, luckless speed,
Turn’d her to this plant we call
Now “the flower of the wall.”

HERRICK.

THE PRIMROSE.

ASK me why I send you here,
This firstling of the infant year;
Ask me why I send to you
This Primrose all bepearled with dew;
I straight will whisper in your ears,
The sweets of love are washed with tears.

Ask me why this flower doth show
So yellow, green, and sickly too;
Ask me why the stalk is weak
And bending, yet it doth not break;
I must tell you, these discover
What doubts and fears are in a lover.

CAREW.

ADONIS SLEEPING,

IN midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth
Of fondest beauty. Sideway his face reposed
On one white arm, and tenderly unclosed,
By tenderest pressure, a faint damask mouth
To slumbery pout; just as the morning south
Disparts a dew-lipp’d rose. Above his head,
Four lily stalks did their white honours wed
To make a coronal; and round him grew
All tendrils green, of every bloom and hue,
Together intertwined and trammel’d fresh:
The vine of glossy sprout; the ivy mesh,
Shading its Ethiop berries; and woodbine,
Of velvet leaves, and bugle blooms divine.
Hard by,
Stood serene Cupids watching silently.
One, kneeling to a lyre, touch’d the strings,
Muffling to death the pathos with his wings;
And, ever and anon, uprose to look
At the youth’s slumber; while another took
A willow bough, distilling odorous dew,
And shook it on his hair; another flew
In through the woven roof, and fluttering-wise,
Rain’d violets upon his sleeping eyes.

KEATS.

MODONNA, wherefore hast thou sent to me
Sweet Basil and Mignonette,
Embleming love and health, which never yet
In the same wreath might be.
Alas, and they are wet!
Is it with thy kisses or thy tears?
For never rain or dew
Such fragrance drew
From plant or flower; the very doubt endears
My sadness ever new,
The sighs I breathe, the tears I shed, for thee.

P. B. SHELLEY.

THERE grew pied Wind-flowers and Violets,
Daisies, those pearl’d Arcturi of the earth,
The constellated flowers that never set;
Faint Oxlips; tender Blue-bells, at whose birth
The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets
Its mother’s face with Heaven-collected tears,
When the low wind, its playmate’s voice, it hears.

And in the warm hedge grew lush Eglantine,
Green Cow-bind and the moonlight-colour’d May
And cherry blossoms, and white cups, whose wine
Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day;
And Wild Roses, and Ivy serpentine
With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray,
And flowers azure, black, and streaked with gold,
Fairer than any wakened eyes behold.

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.

P. B. SHELLEY.

FADE, Flow’rs! fade, Nature will have it so;
’Tis but what we must in our autumn do!
And as your leaves lie quiet on the ground,
The loss alone by those that lov’d them found;
So in the grave shall we as quiet lie,
Miss’d by some few that lov’d our company;
But some so like to thorns and nettles live,
That none for them can, when they perish, grieve.

WALLER.

ARRANGEMENT OF A BOUQUET.

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 Pansies then for show;
And will not this be dainty

The pretty Pansy then I’ll tie,
Like stones some chain inchasing;
And next to them, their near ally,
The purple Violet placing.

The curious choice clove July flower,
Whose kind hight the Carnation,
For sweetnest of most sovereign power,
Shall help my wreath to fashion;

Whose sundry colours of one kind,
First from one root derived,
Them in their several suits I’ll bind:
My garland so contrived.

A course of Cowslips then I’ll stick,
And here and there (though sparely)
The pleasant Primrose down I’ll prick.
Like pearls that will show rarely;

Then with these Marigolds I’ll make
My garland somewhat swelling,
These Honeysuckles then I’ll take,
Whose sweets shall help their smelling.

The Lily and the Fleur-de-lis.
For colour much contending;
For that I them do only prize,
They are but poor in scenting.

The Daffodil most dainty is,
To match with these in meetness;
The Columbine compared 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;
Thus have I made this wreath of mine,
And finished it featly.

NICHOLAS DRAYTON.

THE CHERRY.

THERE is a garden in her face,
Where roses and white lilies grow;
A heavenly paradise is that place.
Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;
There cherries grow that none may buy
Till cherry ripe themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row,
Which, when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rosebuds fill’d with snow;
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy
Till cherry ripe themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still,
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threatening with piercing frowns to kill
All that approach with eye or hand
These sacred cherries to come nigh.
Till cherry ripe themselves do cry.

RICHARD ALLISON

THE GARLAND.

THE pride of every grove I chose,
The violet sweet and lily fair,
The dappled pink and blushing rose,
To deck my charming Cloe’s hair.

At morn the nymph vouchaf’d to place
Upon her brow the various wreath;
The flowers less blooming than her face,
The scent less fragrant than her breath.

The flowers she wore along the day;
And every nymph and shepherd said,
That in her hair they look’d more gay
Than glowing in their native bed.

Undrest, at ev’ning, when she found
Their odours lost, their colours past;
She chang’d her look, and on the ground
Her garland and her eye she cast.

That eye dropt sense distinct and clear,
As any muse’s tongue could speak,
When from its lid a pearly tear
Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.

Dissembling what I knew too well;
My love! my life! said I, explain
This change of humour; pray thee tell:
That falling tear. What does it mean

She sigh’d, she smil’d; and to the flowers
Pointing, the lovely moralist said:
See! friend, in some few fleeting hours,
See yonder, what a change is made!

Ah me! the blooming pride of May,
And that of beauty are but one:
At morn both flourish bright and gay,
Both fade at ev’ning, pale, and gone!

At dawn poor Stella danc’d and sung;
The am’rous youth around her bow’d:
At night her fatal knell was rung!
I saw and kiss’d her in her shroud;

Such as she is, who dy’d to-day,
Such I, alas! may be to-morrow:
Go, Damon, bid thy muse display
The justice of thy Cloe’s sorrow.

PRIOR.

TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE,

MUCH OF TIME,_

GATHER ye rose-buds while ye may:
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best, which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse and worst
Times will succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

ROBERT HERRICK.

SONG OF MAY MORNING.

NOW the bright morning-star, day’s harbinger,
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.
Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire;
Woods and groves are of thy dressing,
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

MILTON.

AMONG the myrtles as I walk’d,
Love and my Sight thus intertalk’d:
Tell me, said I, in deep distress,
Where I may find my Shepherdess?
Thou Fool, said Love, know’st thou not this?
In everything that’s sweet she is.
In yon’d Carnation go and seek,
There thou shalt find her lips and cheek;
In that enamell’d Pansy by,
There thou shalt have her curious eye;
In bloom of Peach and Rose’s bud
There waves the streamer of her blood.
’Tis true, said I; and thereupon
I went to pluck them one by one,
To make of parts an union;
But on a sudden all were gone.
At which I stopp’d; said Love, these be
The true resemblance of Thee;
For as these Flowers, thy joys must die;
And in the turning of an eye;
And all thy hopes of her must wither,
Like those short sweets here knit together.

ROBERT HERRICK.

FRAGMENT, IN WITHERSPOON’S

COLLECTION OF SCOTCH SONGS.

TUNE “Hughie Graham"

“O GIN my love were yon red rose,
“That grows upon the castle wa’;
“And I mysel’ a drap o’ dew,
“Into her bonnie breast to fa’!

“Oh, there beyond expression blest,
“I’d feast on beauty a’ the night;
“Seal’d on her silk-waft faulds to rest,
“Till fley’d awa by Phoebus’ light.”

O were my love yon lilac fair,
Wi’ purple blossoms to the spring;
And I, a bird to shelter there,
When wearied on my little wing;

How I wad mourn, when it was torn
By autumn wild, and winter rude!
But I wad sing on wanton wing,
When youthfu’ May its bloom renew’d.

THE DAISY.

OF all the floures in the mède
Than love I most these floures white and rede
Soch that men callen Daisies in our town,
To hem I have so great affection,
As I sayd erst, when comen is the Maie.
That in my bedde there daweth me no daie,
That I n’am up and walking in the mède
To see this floure ayenst the Sunne sprede;
Whan it up riseth early by the morrow,
That blissful sight softeneth all my sorrow.

CHAUCER.