246

POETRY.

THE WILD PINK OF ROCHESTER CASTLE.

By the Editor of the Kentish Coronal.

[This flower, the Dianthus Caryophyllus of botanists, may be seen blooming very luxuriantly, with the woad, and the snap-dragon, on the outer walls of Rochester Castle, from July to September. Miss Pratt, in "Flowers and their Associations," thus alludes to it. "On the massy walls of the ancient Castle of Rochester, 'bathed, though in ruins, with a flush of flowers;' it grows on heights far beyond the reach of the passenger, rendering the top of the ruins a summer garden. It blossoms in July, and there are not more than half-a-dozen spots in our island where it may be found wild. When transplanted to a garden, it soon assumes a different appearance, and the little Castle Pink would not be recognized, in another summer, as the wild-flower which had last year greeted us from its lofty abode."]

THE Castle Pink! The Castle Pink!

How wildly free it waves,

Exposed to every blast that blows

And every storm that raves;
It heedeth not the pelting rain,
Nor whistling gales that sweep,
Around the time-worn battlement,-
Around the massy Keep;

But smileth still, and flourisheth,
The various seasons through,
For God, he nourisheth the plant
With sunshine, and with dew.

The Castle Pink! The Castle Pink!
It hath a perfume sweet,
Wherewith it welcomes all who come

Unto its lone retreat,

High up above the walks of men,
Beside the Norman's tower,
With no companions, save it be
The woad, and dragon-flower;
And well it doth the toil repay
Of those who venture there,
That balmy fragrance to inhale-
That welcoming to share.

Adown the sheer descent

It looketh with a placid smile
Of love, and sweet content;
It knoweth nought of fear or care,
It heedeth not the strife,
The turmoil, and anxiety,

With which this world is rife,
But trusteth in the watchful arm
Of an Almighty Power;

Oh, many a lesson man might learn
From this unheeded flower!

But he is proud, his heart is hard,
And stony as the rock;

He turneth from sweet Nature's face
And doth her teaching mock;
Within his bosom, love of gain
Hath built her sordid throne,
And all the gentler virtues are
By rank weeds overgrown;
And so he squabbles in the mart,
And hates his fellow man,
Instead of walking in the fields
God's beauties all to scan;

NOBLE the mountain stream,

Bursting in grandeur from its vantage ground;
Glory is in its gleam

Of brightness; thundering in its deafening sound.

Mark, how its foamy spray,

Tinged by the sunbeams with reflected dyes,
Mimics the bow of day

Arching in majesty the vaulted skies!

Thence in a summer shower,

Steeping the rocks around. O! tell me where
Could majesty and power

Be clothed in forms more beautifully fair?

Yet lovelier, in my view,

The Streamlet, flowing silently serene;
Traced by the brighter hue,

And livelier growth it gives, itself unseen!

It flows through flowery meads,

Gladdening the herds which on its margin browse ;
Its quiet beauty feeds

The alders that o'ershade it with their boughs.

Gently it murmurs by

The village churchyard; its low, plaintive tone,
A dirge-like melody,

For worth and beauty modest as its own.

More gaily now it sweeps

By the small school house, in the sunshine bright;
And o'er the pebbles leaps,

Like happy hearts by holiday made light.

May not its course express,

In characters which they who run may read,
The charms of gentleness,

Were but its still small voice allowed to plead?

What are the trophies gained
By power, alone, with all its noise and strife,
To that meek wreath, unstained,

Won by the charities that gladden life?

Niagara's streams might fail,

And human happiness be undisturbed :

But Egypt would turn pale,

Were her still Nile's o'erflowing bounty curbed!

BERNARD BARTON.

THE GOOD CONFESSION.

THE Voice of my Saviour I hear,

The voice of his mercy and love,
Too long I have lingered I fear,

Forgetting the pleasures above.
Too long has the world had my heart,
Too long has its thraldom enslaved,
And, now from its love I would part,
It tells me, I cannot be saved!

The words seem so fearfully true,
That often I sadly exclaim,

For me there's no heaven in view,

And me there is none to reclaim : Though trials without and within, Have told that the world is no rest,

My heart so polluted with sin,

Cannot look for the joys of the blest!

Yet now is the message conveyed,
In fulness of mercy to me,
Which tells how a ransom was paid,

On purpose that I should be free;
Which points to the Lamb on the throne,—
That Lamb was the ransom indeed,—

Who died for my sins to atone,

And lives for my rescue to plead !

And now that the music of bliss,

Dispels the dark vision of woe, For mercy so boundless as this,

What grateful return can I show? Shall I shrink from avowing the love Whose frequent pulsations I feel, Or, ashamed of my Saviour above, His visit of mercy conceal?

Ah, no! I will gladly avow

What things He has done for my soul,

And then with his people below,

I'll hasten my name to enrol;