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SOLITUDE.

To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow ; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow.

THOMAS CAMPBELL, 1777—1844.

47

SOLITUDE.

It is not that my lot is low,
That bids this silent tear to flow;
It is not grief that bids me moan,
It is that I am all alone.

In woods and glens I love to roam,
When the tired hedger hies him home;
Or by the woodland pool to rest,
When pale the star looks on its breast.

Yet when the silent evening sighs,
With hallowed airs and symphonies,
My spirit takes another tone,
And sighs that it is all alone.

The autumn leaf is sere and dead,
It floats upon the water's bed;
I would not be a leaf, to die
Without recording sorrow's sigh!

The woods and winds, with sudden wail,
Tell all the same unvaried tale;

I've none to smile when I am free,
And when I sigh, to sigh with me.

Yet in my dreams a form I view,
That thinks of me and loves me too;
I start, and when the vision's flown
I weep, for I am all alone.

KIRKE WHITE, 1783-1806.

TO A DAISY.

ON FINDING ONE IN BLOOM ON CHRISTMAS DAY.

THERE is a flower, a little flower,

With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.

The prouder beauties of the field
In gay but quick succession shine;
Race after race their honours yield,
They flourish and decline.

But this small flower, to nature dear,

While moons and stars their courses run, Wreathes the whole circle of the year, Companion of the sun.

It smiles upon the lap of May,

To sultry August spreads its charms,
Lights pale October on its way,
And twines December's arms.

The purple heath, and golden broom,
On moory mountains catch the gale;
O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume,
The violet in the vale.

But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.

Within the garden's cultured round
It shares the sweet carnation's bed;
And blooms on consecrated ground,
In honour of the dead.

The lambkin crops its crimson gem,
The wild bee murmurs on its breast;
The blue fly bends its pensile stem
Light o'er the skylark's nest.

*

SNOW.

"Tis Flora's page;-in every place,
In every season, fresh and fair,
It opens with perennial grace,
And blossoms everywhere.

On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise;
The rose has but a summer reign-

The daisy never dies.

JAMES MONTGOMERY, 1771-1854.

SNOW.

SNOW, Snow everywhere
On the ground and in the air,
In the fields and in the lane,
On the roof and window-pane.

Snow, snow everywhere!

Making common things look fair,
Stones beside the garden walks,
Broken sticks and cabbage stalks.

Snow, snow everywhere!
Dressing up the trees so bare,
Resting on each fir-tree bough,
Till it bends, a plume of snow.

Snow, snow everywhere!

Covering up young roots with care,
Keeping them so safe and warm,
Jack Frost cannot do them harm.

Snow, snow everywhere!
We are glad to see it here;
Snowball-making will be fun

When to-morrow's work is done!

*The fabulous goddess of flowers.

E

49

THE USE OF FLOWERS.

GOD might have bade the earth bring forth
Enough for great and small,

The oak tree and the cedar tree
Without a flower at all.

We might have had enough, enough
For every want of ours,
For luxury, medicine, and toil,

And yet have had no flowers.

The ore within the mountain mine
Requireth none to grow;
Nor does it need the lotus flower
To make the river flow.

The clouds might give abundant rain,
The nightly dews might fall,
And the herb that keepeth life in man
Might yet have drunk them all.

Then wherefore, wherefore were they made,
All dyed in rainbow light,
All fashioned with supremest grace,
Up-springing day and night?—

Springing in valleys green and low,
And on the mountains high,
And in the silent wilderness,
Where no man passes by.

Our outward life requires them not,
Oh, why then had they birth?
To minister delight to man,
To beautify the earth.

To comfort man, to whisper hope,
Whene'er his faith is dim;

That He who careth for the flowers

Will much more care for him.

MARY HOWITT, 1800—1867.

THE OLD GREY THRUSH.

OF all the birds of tuneful note
That warble o'er field and flood,

O give me the thrush with the speckled throat,
The king of the singing wood!

For see, he sits on the topmost twig
To carol forth his glee,

And none can dance a merrier jig,
Or laugh more loud than he.

So the thrush, the thrush, the old grey thrush,
A merry, blithe old boy is he ;

You may hear him on the roadside bush,
Or the topmost twig of the mountain tree.

Ere Spring, arrayed in robes of green,
Bids beautiful flowers start,

He cheereth up dull December's scene
With a song from his gushing heart.
But sweeter far are his notes to me,
When, piping to the morn,

He meets the bright sun o'er the lea
With a flourish of his horn.

So the thrush, the thrush, the old grey thrush,
A merry, blithe old boy is he ;

You may hear him on the roadside bush,

Or the topmost twig of the mountain tree.

To come with the balmy breath of Spring,
And shout to the orient beam;

To hop on his favourite bough, and sing,
When rich, ruby sunsets gleam;
To feed his love in her moss-built nest,
To rear us a singing brood,

And fire with song the poet's breast,
He haunteth the green-roofed wood.

Oh, the thrush, the thrush, the old grey thrush,
A merry, blithe old boy is he;

You may hear him on the roadside bush,

Or the topmost twig of the mountain tree.

EDWARD CAPERN.

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