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CLIFTON HILL.

With all their various berries blush,

And the blue sloe abound for thee!
For thee the coral holly grow,

Its armed and glossy leaves among,
And many a branchèd oak be hung
With thy pellucid mistletoe.

Still may thy nest, with lichen lined,
Be hidden from the invading jay ;
Nor truant boy its covert find,

To bear thy callow young away:
So thou, precursor still of good,
O herald of approaching spring,
Shalt to the pensive wand'rer sing
Thy song of Hope and Fortitude!

SMITH.

CLIFTON HILL.

THOUGH slow and pensive now the moments roll, Successive months shall from our torpid soul Hurry these scenes again; the laughing hours Advancing swift, shall strew spontaneous flowers;

ON A SPRIG OF HEATH.

The early-peeping snowdrop, crocus mild,
And modest violet, grace the secret wild:

Pale primrose, daisy, May-pole decking sweet,
And purple hyacinth together meet:

All Nature's sweets in joyous circles move,
And wake the frozen soul again to love.
The ruddy swain now stalks along the vale,
And snuffs fresh ardor from the flying gale;
The landscape rushes on his untaught mind,
Strong raptures rise, but raptures undefined;
He louder whistles, stretches o'er the green,
By screaming milk-maids not unheeded, seen;
The downcast look ne'er fixes on the swain,
They dread his eye, retire, and gaze again.

YEARSLEY

ON A SPRIG OF HEATH.

FLOWER of the waste! the heath-fowl shuns
For thee the brake and tangled wood—

To thy protecting shade she runs,

Thy tender buds supply her food;
Her young forsake her downy plumes,
To rest upon thy opening blooms.

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ON A SPRIG OF HEATH.

Flower of the desert though thou art!

The deer that range the mountain free, The graceful doe, the stately hart,

Their food and shelter seek from thee; The bee thy earliest blossom greets,

And draws from thee her choicest sweets.

Gem of the heath! whose modest bloom
Sheds beauty o'er the lonely moor;
Though thou dispense no rich perfume,
Nor yet with splendid tints allure,
Both valor's crest and beauty's bower
Oft hast thou decked, a favorite flower.

Flower of the wild! whose purple glow
Adorns the dusky mountain's side,
Not the gay hues of Iris' bow,

Nor garden's artful varied pride,
With all its wealth of sweets could cheer,
Like thee, the hardy mountaineer.

Flower of his heart! thy fragrance mild

Of peace and freedom seem to breathe;

THE ANGLER.

To pluck thy blossoms in the wild,

And deck his bonnet with the wreath, Where dwelt of old his rustic sires,

Is all his simple wish requires.

Flower of his dear-loved native land!
Alas, when distant far more dear!
When he from some cold foreign strand,

Looks homeward through the blinding tear,

How must his aching heart deplore

That home and thee he sees no more!

THOU that hast loved so long and well

The vale's deep quiet streams, Where the pure water-lilies dwell, Shedding forth tender gleams;

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THE ANGLER.

And o'er the pool the May-fly's wing
Glances in golden eves of spring.

Oh! lone and lovely haunts are thine,
Soft, soft the river flows,
Wearing the shadow of thy line,
The gloom of alder-boughs;

And in the midst, a richer hue,

One gliding vein of heaven's own blue.

And there but low sweet sounds are heard-

The whisper of the reed,

The plashing trout, the rustling bird,
The scythe upon the mead:

Yet through the murmuring osiers near,
There steals a step which mortals fear.

'Tis not the stag, that comes to lave,
At noon, his panting breast;
'Tis not the bittern by the wave

Seeking her sedgy nest;

The air is filled with summer's breath,

The young flowers laugh-yet look! 'tis death!