B LOSSOMS that lowly bend, Shutting your leaves from evening's chilly dew, I walk at silent eve, When scarce a breath is in the garden bowers, Beneath the cool green boughs, And perfumed bells of the fresh blossomed lime, Or in the mossy dell, Where the pale primrose trembles at a breath; Beholds her form beneath; The Voice of the Flowers. Or where the rich queen-rose 143 Sits throned and blushing, 'midst her leaves and moss; Or where the wind-flower, pale and fragile, blows, Or violets banks emboss. Here do I love to be, Mine eye alone in passionate love to dwell Of every bud and bell. Oh blessedness, to lie By the clear brook, where the long-bennet dips! Unto the burning lips! To lay the weary head And then to sit at noon, When bees are humming low, and birds are still, Of the swift woodland rill. And dreams can then reveal That, wordless though ye be, ye have a tone, Ye speak of hope and love, Bright as your hues, and vague as your perfume; Of changeful, fragile thoughts, that brightly move Men's hearts amid their gloom. Ye speak of human life, Its mystery, the beautiful and brief; Its sudden fading, 'midst the tempest strife, And, more than all, ye speak Of might and power, of mercy, of the One To gladden all the earth With bright and beauteous emblems of his grace, That showers its gift of uncomputed worth, In every clime and place. BROWNE. LOVE'S WREATH. HEN Love was a child, and went idling round O'erhead from the trees hung a garland fair, 'Twas pleasure that hung the bright flowers up there, Love knew it, and jumped at the wreath. But Love did not know-and, at his weak years, That Sorrow had made, of her own salt tears, He caught at the wreath, but with too much haste, It fell in those waters of briny taste, Yet this is the wreath he wears night and day; And, though it all sunny appears, With Pleasure's own lustre, each leaf, they say, Still tastes of the fountain of tears. MOCRE. BEAUTY WARNED BY THE FLOWERS. TRUST not, sweet soul! those curled waves of gold, Nor voice whose sounds more strange effects do show Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing beams DRUMMOND. |