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THE FLOWER'S NAME.
fERE'S the garden she walked across,
Arm in my arm, such a short while since:
Hinders the hinges, and makes them wince.
Down this side of the gravel-walk
She went while her robe's edge brushed the box; And here she paused in her gracious talk
To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. Roses, ranged in valiant row,
I will never think that she passed you by! She loves you, noble roses, I know;
But yonder see where the rock-plants llel
This flower she stopped at, finger on Up,—
Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim; Till she gave me. with pride to make no slip,
Its soft meandering Spanish name. What a name! was it love or praise?
Speech half asleep, or song half awake? I must learn Spanish one of these days,
Only for that slow sweet name's sake.
Roses, if I live and do well,
I may bring her one of these days, To fix you fast with as flue a spell,—
Fit you each with his Spanish phrase. But do not detain me now, for she lingers
There, like a sunshine over the ground; And ever I see her soft white fingers
Searching after the bud she found.
Flower, you Spaniard! look that you grow not,—
Stay as you are, and be loved forever! Bud, if I kiss you, 'tis that you blow not,—
Mind! the shut pink mouth opens never! For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle,
Twinkhng the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn, and down they nestle:
Is not the dear mark still to be seen?
Where I find her not, beauties vanish;
Whither I follow her, beauties flee.
June's twice June since she breathed it with me? Come, bud! show me the least of her traces;
Treasure my lady's lightest footfall:
Roses, you are not so fair, after all!
PREVG, with that nameless pathos in the air
Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns
In the deep heart of every forest tree
And there's a look about the leafless bowers,
Yet still on every side we trace the hand
Save where the maple reddens on the lawn,
Or where, like those strange semblances we find
As yet the turf is dark, although you know
A thousand germs are groping through the gloom.
In gardens you may note amid the dearth
And near the snow-drop's tender white and green.
But many gleams and shadows needs must pass
Still there's sense of blossoms yet unborn
At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by,
Some wondrous pageant; and yon scarce would start,
A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say,
1 here the gentle lark, weary of rest, The sun ariseth in his majesty;
From his moist cabinet mounts up on high, Who doth the world so gloriously behold,
And wakes the morning, from whose silver That cedar-tops and hills seem burnish'd gold.
breast William Shakespeare.
EAR, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing cf- Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake i Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring, f This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction; once I loved Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved.
It is the hush of night, and all between
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more: *****
The sky is changed! — and such a change! O night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along. From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud. Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!
FREEDOM OF NATURE.
CARE not. Fortune, what you me deny:
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace