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But now the scene is changed, and all
Is fancifully new;
Are bending on the view,
The silvery arches through.
The boughs are strung with glittering pearls,
As dewdrops bright and bland,
Like gems of Samarcand,
The work of fairy land.
And in the light breeze swerves,
Upon its graceful curves,
Thrilling the secret nerves.
Pure as the dazzling snow,
Had come in its stealthy flow,
FIELD FLOWERS. Ye field flowers ! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true, Yet, wildings of nature, I dote upon you,
For ye waft me to summers of old, When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd my sight,
Like treasures of silver and gold. I love you for lulling me back into dreams Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams, And of broken blades breathing their balm; While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, . And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note
Made music that sweeten'd the calm. Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune Than ve speak to my heart, little wildings of June :
Of old ruinous castles ye tell: I thought it delightful your beauties to find When the magic of nature first breathed on my mind,
And your blossoms were part of her spell.
Can the wild water-lily restore!
In the vetches that tangle the shore!
Had scathed my existence's bloom ; Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, With the visions of youth to revisit my age, And I wish you to grow on my tomb.
A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE. I saw her in the morn of hope, in life's delicious
spring, A radiant creature of the earth, just bursting on the
wing; Elate and joyous as the lark when first it soars on high, Without a shadow in its path,-a cloud upon its sky. I see her yet—so fancy deems—her soft, unbraided Gleaming, like sunlight upon snow, above her fore.
Her large dark eyes, of changing light, the winning
smile that play'd, In dimpling sweetness, round a mouth Expression's
self had made! And light alike of heart and step, she bounded on her
way, Nor dream'd the flowers that round her bloom'd
would ever know decay ;She had no winter in her note, but evermore would
sing (What darker season had she proved?) of spring of
only spring! Alas, alas, that hopes like hers, so gentle and so
bright, The growth of many a happy year, one wayward
hour should blight; Bow down her fair but fragile form, her brilliant
brow o'ercast, And make her beauty-like her bliss a shadow of
the past! Years came and went-we met again,—but what a
change was there! The glossy calmness of the eye, that whisper'd of
despair ; The fitful flushing of the cheek,—the lips compress’d
and thin,The clench of the attenuate hands,-proclaim'd the
strife within! Yet, for each ravaged charm of earth some pitying
power had given Beauty, of more than mortal birth,-a spell that
breathed of heaven ;And as she bent, resign'd and meek, beneath the
chastening blow, With all a martyr's fervid faith her features seem'd
No wild reproach, no bitter word, in that sad hour
was spoken, For hopes deceived, for love betray'd, and plighted
pledges broken ;Like Him who for his murderers pray'd,—she wept,
but did not chide, And her last orisons arose for him for whom she died ! Thus, thus, too oft the traitor man repays fond
woman's truth; Thus blighting, in his wild caprice, the blossoms of
her youth: And sad it is, in griefs like these, o'er visions loved
and lost, That the truest and the tenderest heart must always suffer most!
A. A. WATTS.
TO A CHILD.
And curly pate, and merry eye,
And soft and fair, thou urchin sly?
What boots it who, with sweet caresses,
First call'd thee his, or squire or hind ?
Dost now a friendly playmate find!
As fringed eyelids rise and fall,
"Tis infantine coquetry all!
With mocks and threats half-lisp'd, half-spoken, I feel thee pulling at my gown,
Of right good-will thy simple token!
And thou must laugh and wrestle too,
A mimic warfare with me waging, To make, as wily lovers do,
Thy after kindness more engaging! The wilding rose, sweet as thyself,
And new-cropp'd daisies, are thy treasure; I'd gladly part with worldly pelf,
To taste again thy youthful pleasure ! But yet, for all thy merry look,
Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming, When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook,
The weary spell or hornbook thumbing!
Thou know'st not now thy future range;
The year leads round the seasons, in a choir