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But as the frail and fragrant flower,
Doth even in death an essence pour,
woman's deep, enduring love,
Which nothing can appal,
Her steadfast faith, that looks above
THE rose of England bloom'd on Gertrude's cheek—
A loved bequest-and I may half impart,
I may not paint those thousand infant charms;
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. -->
I LIKE not beauty's roseate brightness;
I like not lips for ever smiling;
SEE wither'd Winter bending low his head;
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.
Now on hills, rocks, and streams and vales and plains
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 ;”
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
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
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.