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But as the frail and fragrant flower,
Crush'd by the sweeping blast,

Doth even in death an essence pour,
The sweetest and the last,

woman's deep, enduring love,

Which nothing can appal,

Her steadfast faith, that looks above
For rest, can conquer all.

MRs. SIGOURNEY.

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THE rose of England bloom'd on Gertrude's cheek—
What though these shades had seen her birth, her sire
A Briton's independence taught to seek
Far western worlds; and there his household sire
The light of social love did long inspire,
And many a halcyon day he lived to see
Unbroken, but by one misfortune dire,
When fate had rest his mutual heart—but she
Was son Gertrude claim’d a widow’d father's
nee:–

A loved bequest-and I may half impart,
To them that feel the strong paternal tie,
How like a new existence to his heart
That living flow'r uprose beneath his eye,
Dear as she was, from cherub infancy,
From hours when she would round his garden play;
To time when, as the rip'ning years went by,
Her lovely mind could culture well repay,
And more engaging grew, from pleasing day to day.

I may not paint those thousand infant charms;
(Unconscious fascination, undesign'd')
The orison repeated in his arms, -
For God to bless her sire and all mankind;
The book, the bosom on * knee reclin'd,

Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con, (The playmate ere the teacher of her mind:) All uncompanion'd else her years had gone, Till now in Gertrude's eyes their ninth blue summer shone. CAMPBELL. -->

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I LIKE not beauty's roseate brightness;
I like not beauty's sparkling eye :
Give me the cheek whose marble whiteness
Feeling's faint blush alone can dye;
ive me the pure and tranquil glance
Where no vain triumphs proudly dance,
Serene and blue as heaven's expanse;—
Thy cheeks, thine eyes, my Mary!

I like not lips for ever smiling;
I like not speech for ever gay:
Give me the softness more beguiling
Which gently veils wit’s brilliant ray;
Give me the mellow voice that tells
What sweetness in the bosom dwells;
The sigh that oft that bosom swells;–
Thy voice, thy sigh, my Mary!
Miss MITFoRD
-o-o-

WINTER.

SEE wither'd Winter bending low his head;
His ragged locks stiff with the hoary dew ;
His eyes, like frozen lakes, of livid hue;
His train a sable cloud, with o, red
Streak'd.—Ah! behold his nitrous breathings shed
Petrific death! Lean, waleful birds pursue,
On as he sweeps o'er the dun lonely moor,
Amid the battling blasts of all the winds
That, while their sleet the climbing sailor blinds,
h the white surges to the sounding shore.

So comest thou, Winter, finally to doom The sinking year; and with thy ice-dropp'd sprays, Cypress and yew, engarland her pale tomb, Her vanish’d hopes and aye departed days. ANNA. SEWARD.

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Now on hills, rocks, and streams and vales and plains
Full looks the shining day.—Our gardens wear
The jo. robes of the consummate year.
With laugh and shout and song, stout maids and
swains -
Heap high the fragrant hay, as through rough lanes
Rings the yet empty wagon.—See in air
The pendent cherries, red with tempting stains,
Gleam through their boughs-Summer, thy bright
Career
Must slacken soon in Autumn's milder sway;
Then thy now heap'd and jocund meads shall stand
Smooth, vacant—silent, through th' exulting land
As waves thy rival's golden fields, and gay
Her reapers throng. She smiles, and binds the
sheaves,
Then bends her parting step o'er fallen and rust-
ling leaves.
ANNA SEWARD.

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How happily, how happily the flowers die away! Oh, could we but return to earth as easily as they ! Just live a life of sunshine, of innocence and bloom, Then drop without decrepitude, or pain, into the tomb!

The gay and glorious creatures! they neither “toil spin ;”

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No *... on their beauty, but dewy gems more right

Than i. brow of eastern queen endiadem'd with ght.

The yo; rejoicing creatures! their pleasures never all;

p Nor lo, in sweet contentment, because so free to all – The dew, the showers, the sunshine, the balmy, blessed air, Spend nothing of their freshness, though all may freely share.

The happy careless creatures! of time they take no eed ;

Nor weary of his creeping, nor tremble at his speed;

Nor sigh with sick impatience, and wish the light

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And when their lives are over, they drop away to rest, Unconscious of the penal doom, on holy Nature's

breast; No pain have they in dying—no shrinking from de

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THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the ear, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the wither'd leaves lie dead; They ‘. to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the

shrub the§ And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sister

Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers

*Are o in their lowly beds, with the fair and good Of ours

The rain is falling where they lie; but cold November rain

Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long ago,

And the wild-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow ;

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the

WOOCl, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from o glade and glen.

And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come,

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home,

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,

The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

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