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And blushing, the uncultur'd rose

Hangs high her beauteous blossoms there.

Her fillets there the purple nightshade weaves, And the brionia winds her pale and scallop'd leaves.

Shelt'ring the coot's or wild duck's nest,
And where the bright king-fisher hides,
The willow-herb in crimson drest,

Waves with Arundo, o'er the tides;
And there the sweet Nymphea loves to lave,
Or spread her golden orbs upon the dimpling wave.

And thou, by pain and sorrow blest,

Papaver, that an opiate dew,
Conceal'st beneath thy scarlet vest,
Contrasting with the corn-flower blue.
Autumnal months behold thy gaudy leaves,
Bend in the rustling gale, amid the tawny leaves.
From the first bud, whose venturous head,
The winter's lingering tempests braves,
To those, which mid the foliage dead,
Sink latest to their annual grave.

All are for food, for health, or pleasure giv'n,
And speak, in various ways, the bounteous hand of
Heav'n.

Sybilla.

THE SNOWDROP.

POETS still with grateful numbers,
May the glowing roses chuse,
But the snowdrop's simple beauty
Better suits the humbler muse.

Earliest bud that decks the garden,
Fairest of the fragrant race,
First-born child of vernal Flora,
Blooming in thy lowly place.

Though no warm and murmuring zephyr,
Fan thy leaves with balmy wing;
Pleas'd, we hail thee, spotless blossom,
Herald of the infant spring.

White-rob'd flow'r, in lonely beauty,
Rising from thy wintry bed;
Chilling winds and blasts ungenial,
Rudely threat around thy head.
"Tis not thine, with flaunting beauty
To attract the roving sight;
Nature, from her varied wardrobe,
Chose thy vest of purest white.

White as falls the fleecy shower,
Thy soft form in sweetness grows;
Not more fair the valley's treasure,
Not more sweet her lily blows.
No warm tints of vivid colouring,
Paint thy bills with gaudy pride;

Charm'd, we seek thy modest fragrance
Where no thorns insidious hide.

When, to pure and modest virtue,
Friendship twines a votive wreath,
O'er the fair selected garland,

Thou thy perfume sweet shall breathe.

SONNET TO A PRIMROSE.

Lloyd.

COME, Simple floweret. of the paly leaf,
With yellow eye, and stalk of downy green,
Though mild thy lustre, though thy days are brief,
Oh! come and decorate my cottage scene.
For thee I'll rear a bank, where softest moss,
And tenderest grass shall carelessly combine;
No haughty flower shall shine in gaudy glass,
But azure violets mix their buds with thine.
Far, far away each keener wind shall fly,

Each threatening tempest of the early year!
Thy fostering gale shall be the parent's sigh!
The dew that gems thy bud the parent's tear!
And ere thou diest, pale flower, thou'lt gain the
praise;

To have soothed the bard, and to have inspired

his lays.

THE EMMET.

Watts.

THESE emmets, how little, they are in our eyes! We tread them to death and a troop of them dies, Without our regard or concern.

Yet as wise as we are, if we went to their school, There's many a sluggard, and many a fool,

Some lessons of wisdom might take.

They don't wear their time out in sleeping or play, But gather up corn in a sun-shiny day,

And for winter they lay up their stores.

They manage their work in such regular forms, One would think they foresaw all the frosts and the storms,

And so brought their food within doors.

But I have less sense than a poor creeping ant,
If I take not due care for the things I shall want,
Nor provide against dangers in time;

When death and old age shall stare in my face,
What a wretch shall I be in the end of my days,
If I trifle away all their prime.

Now, now, while my strength and my youth are in

bloom,

Let me think what will serve when sickness shall come, And pray that my sins be forgiven.

Let me read in good books, and believe and obey; That when death turns me out of this cottage of clay, may dwell in a palace in heaven.

I

INVITATION TO THE BEE.

CHILD of patient industry,

Little, active, busy bee;
Thou art out at early morn,

Just as opening flowers are born,
Among the green and grassy meads,
Where golden cowslips hang their heads;
Or by hedge-rows, while the dew
Glitters on the harebell blue.
Go, while summer suns are bright,
Take, at large, thy wandering flight;
Go, and load thy hairy feet
With every rich and varied sweet.
Cling around the flowering thorn;
Pierce the woodbine's honied horn;
Seek the wild rose in the dell ;
Explore the fox-glove's specked bell;
Or in the heath-flower's fairy cup,
Drink the fragrant spirit up.
But when meadows shall be mown,
And summer's garlands over-blown,
Then come, thou little busy bee,
And let thy home-stead be with me.
There, shelter'd by thy straw-built hive,
In my garden thou shalt live;

And that garden shall supply

Thy delicious alchemy.

There, for thee, in Autumn blows

The Indian pink, and latest rose.

Smith.

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