The pines that uprear themselves dark and tall,
Black knights of the forest so stately and old,
They must bow their heads when they hear thy call;
Ay, bow like the lily, those Norsemen bold:
And every tree of the field, or the bower,
Or single in strength, or many in power,
Quiver and thrill from the leaf to the stem,
For the unseen wind is the master of them.
It is gallant play; for the sun is bright,
And the rivulet sings a merrier song;
The corn in the meadow waves dark and light
As the trees fling shade, or the breeze is strong.
And over the hills, whether rocky or green,
Troops of the noonday ghosts are seen;
The lovely shadows of lovelier clouds,
With the gleam of the mountains amongst their crowds.
The birds as they fly scarce use their wings,
They are borne upon those of the wind to-day;
Their plumes are ruffled, like all green things,
And flowers, and streams, by his noisy play.
One hour-and valley, and wood, and hill,
May be sleeping and shining all bright and still;
Not a wave, not a leaf, not a spray in motion,
Of all which now looks like a vernal ocean ;-
Beautiful that ;-yet I love to see
Thy strength, O wind, on the forest tree!
THE MEADOW GOWAN.
"O LINTIE, blythe voiced lintie,"
Sang the happy-heartit wren,
To its neebour on the auld aik tree
That grows i' the Hazelglen;
"O lintie, gleefu' lintie,
I' yer ain clear accents tell
Whilk o' the blossoms ye like the best,
In field or flower-gemmed fell ?"
"O sunshine-lovin' birdie,"
Sang the siller-toned lintie gay,
"I lo'e the flowers o' the green-gilt bowers,
An' I lo'e my ain sweet May;
An' noo that she busks the meadows,
In vestures o' fairy green,
Fu' mony braw buds i' the lanely woods
Bloom rosily serene.
"The sky-blue glow o' the violet
Shines oot frae its cosy nook,
An' the harebell's pride nods owre the side
O' the crystal-rinnin' brook;
The snaw-white virgin lily,
The yellow-frilled daffodil,
Bestud the knowe an' the huntin' howe,
An' the emerald-tinted hill.
"But o' a' the shinin' colours
O' purple an' azure dye,
That paint the flowers o' the woodland bowers
Sae fair an' sae ruddily,
I lo'e the white o' the gowan,
A' modest-like an' mild,
Wi' its spotless face o' maiden grace
'Tis the meadow's bonniest child.
"O gowan, gowd-lipt gowan,
Wi' yer rosy-spangled crest,
An' yer stainless lips, whaur the clear dew drips, "Tis you I lo'e the best."
STOP, pretty stranger, stop and see
The modest flower, wild, and free-
That sips of Nature's draught divine,
Nor envies man's oft boasted wine.
Oh, what delight to kiss the morn,
Perhaps some other floweret born,
To add companions to the vale,
To cheer the ever-stirring gale!
And hark! dost hear the lively song,
That with its echo wafts along,
To lull my stationary hours,
And charm my sister budding flowers.
Nay, do not go without a kiss,
Salute me, sweetest. Ah, what bliss!
The nectar from thy lips, behold,
Has left on mine the tints of gold.
THE star of love on evening's brow hath smiled,
Showering her golden influence with her beam;
Hushed is the ocean wave, and soft and mild
The breathing zephyr; lulled is every stream,
Placid and gentle as a vestal's dream,
The bard of night, the angel of the spring,
O'er the wild minstrels of the grove supreme,
Near his betrothed flower expands his wing-
Wake, lovely rose, awake, and hear thy poet sing!
The night is past; wake, Queen of every flower,
Breathing the soul of spring in thy perfume;
The pearls of morning are thy wedding dower,
Thy bridal garment is a robe of bloom!
Wake, lovely flower! for now the winter's gloom,
Hath wept itself in April showers away;
Wake, lovely flower! and bid thy smiles assume
A kindred brightness with the rosy ray
That streaks the floating clouds with the young blush of day.
THE GUELDER ROSE.
THOU full-blown comely creature,
Say, what is thy sudden stound,
That flushes thy cheek's white feature,
In the guise of Love's own wound!
Wert thou but of human fashion,
Like me, with a burning heart,
I'd say, 'twas the tint of passion,
Yet cold as ice thou art.
may have no heart within me,
I may be ice-cold quite;
Yet joy would a cheek-flush win me,
As longing doth paint me white.
"To earth, my fond mother, I'm fleeting,
And death is to lead the way;
I think of his yesternight's greeting,
And blush for delight to-day."
TO THE PASSION FLOWER.
WHAT though not thine the rose's brilliant glow,
Or odour of the gifted violet,
Or dew with which the lily's cheek is wet;
Though thine would seem the pallid streaks of woe,
The drops that from the fount of sorrows flow.
Thy purple tints of shame; though strange appear, The types of torture thou art doomed to wear; Yet blooms for me no hue like thine below,
For from thee breathes the odour of a name,
Whose sweetness melts my soul and dims my eyes;
And in thy mystic leaves of woe and shame
I read a tale to which my heart replies
In voiceless throbbing and devoted sighs;
Death's darkest agony and mercy's claim,
And love's last words of grief are written in thy dyes.
THE HAREBELL AND THE FOXGLOVE.
IN a valley obscure, on a bank of green shade,
A sweet little Harebell her dwelling had made:
Her roof was a woodbine, that tastefully spread
Its close-woven tendrils, o'erarching her head;
Her head was of moss, that each morning made new;
She dined on a sunbeam, and supped on the dew;
Her neighbour, the nightingale, sung her to rest;
And care had ne'er planted a thorn in her breast.
One morning she saw, on the opposite side,
A Foxglove displaying his colours of pride;
She gazed on his form that in stateliness grew,
And envied his height and his brilliant hue:
She marked how the flowerets all gave way before him,
While they pressed round her dwelling with far less decorum;
Dissatisfied, jealous, and peevish she grows,
And the sight of the Foxglove destroys her
She tires of her vesture, and swelling with spleen,
Cries, "Ne'er such a dowdy blue mantle was seen!"
Nor keeps to herself any longer her pain,
But thus to a Primrose begins to complain:
"I envy your mood, that can patient abide
The respect paid that Foxglove, his airs and his pride;
There you sit, still the same, with your colourless cheek,
But you have no spirit,-would I were as meek."
THE NIGHT-FLOWERING CEREUS.
The Primrose, good-humoured, replied, "If you knew
More about him-(remember I'm older than you,
And better instructed, can tell you his tale)--
You'd envy him least of all flowers in the vale;
With all his fine airs, and his dazzling show,
No blossom more baneful and odious can blow;
And the reason that flowerets before him give way,
Is because they all hate him and shrink from his ray.
"To stay near him long would be fading or death,
For he scatters a pest with his venomous breath;
While the flowers that you fancy are crowding you there,
Spring round you, delighted your converse to share;
His flame-coloured robe is imposing, 'tis true;
Yet, who likes it so well as your mantle of blue ?
For we know that of innocence one is the vest,
The other, the cloak of a treacherous breast.
I see your surprise-but I know him full well,
I've remembered his victims as fading they fell;
He blighted twin-violets, that under him lay,
And poisoned a sister of mine the same day."
The Primrose was silent-the Harebell, 'tis said,
Inclined for a moment her beautiful head:
But quickly recovered her spirits, and then
Declared that she ne'er should feel envy again.
THE NIGHT-FLOWERING CEREUS.
"The night-flowering Cereus, or Cactus grandiflorus, is one of our most splendid hothouse plants, and is a native of Jamaica, and some other of the West India Islands. Its stem is creeping, and thickly set with spines. The flower is white, and very large, sometimes nearly a foot in diameter. The most remarkable circumstance with regard to the flower, is the short time which it takes to expand, and the rapidity with which it decays. It begins to open late in the evening, flourishes for an hour or two, then begins to droop, and before morning is completely dead."-Sacred Harp of American Poetry.
Now departs day's garish light-
Beauteous flower, lift thy head!
Rise upon the brow of night!
Haste, thy transient lustre shed!
Night has dropped her dusky veil-
All vain thoughts be distant far,
While, with silent awe, we hail
Flora's radiant evening star,
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