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The purple heath and golden broom
On moory mountains catch the gale ;
The violet in the vale ;
But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Peeps round the fox's den.
Within the garden's cultured round,
It shares the sweet carnation's bed ;
In honour of the dead,
The wild bee murmurs on its breast,
Light o'er the skylark's nest.
In every season fresh and fair;
And blossoms everywhere.
Its humble buds unheeded rise :
The rose had been washed, just washed in a shower,
Which Mary to Anna conveyed;
And weighed down its beautiful head.
The cup was all filled, and the leaves were all wet,
And it seemed, to a fanciful view,
On the flourishing bush where it grew.
I hastily seized it, unfit as it was
For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned, And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas !
I snapped it: it fell to the ground.
And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind,
Already to sorrow resigned.
This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, .
Might have bloomed with its owner a while; And the tear that is wiped with a little address, May be followed, perhaps, by a smile.
AN ITALIAN BOAT SONG.
The morn shines bright,
And the bark bounds light
We love the strife
Of the sailor's life,
Now high, now low,
To the depths we go,
We make a track
On the Ocean's back,
Fearless we face
The storm in its chase,
And meet the shock
Of the fierce siroc,
The landsman may quail
Which perils the sailor's joy;
But wild as the waves
Sir E. B. LYTTON.
I ask not wealth ;-the glittering toy
I never may command;
And wield the gilded wand.
My brow would never wear;
Or banish even care.
I ask not beauty ;—'tis a gem
As fleeting as ’tis bright;
And saddening is its flight.
Why should I e'er possess ?
No solid happiness.
Be mine Religion's trust;
All else is sordid dust.
- Be mine attendants too,
Present me heaven's bright view.
For Death, ere long, with subtle art,
Will claim his kindred dust ;-
How sacred be its trust!
Then I can feel life’s troubled road
Has not been passed in vain;
THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.
Majestic in her person, tall and straight;
The ancient spirit is not dead;
She begged an alms, like one in poor estate;
When from these lofty thoughts I woke,
She answered, soon as she the question heard, “A simple burden, sir-a little singing-bird.”
And, thus continuing, she said,
And I have travelled weary miles to see
The bird and cage they both were his : 'Twas my son's bird; and neat and trim He kept it: many voyages This singing bird had gone with him: When last he sailed, he left the bird behind; From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind.
He to a fellow-lodger's care
And now, God help me for my little wit!
THE BLIND MOTHER.
GENTLY, dear mother; here
Gently, and do not fear;
The green leaves as we pass Lay their light fingers on thee unaware; And by thy side the hazel clusters fair;
And the low forest grass Grows green and lovely, where the wood-paths windAlas for thee, dear mother, thou art blind !
And nature is all bright;
And evening's dewy light
And the kind looks of friends
And the tall stripling bends
But thou canst hear, and love May richly on a human tongue be poured ;