Oh, fresh was the air where it reared its head, When the morning sun rose frae his eastern ha', And spread out its leaves o' the yellow and blue. When the winds were still, and the sun rode high, And when autumn came, and the summer had passed, And the pale stars looked forth-but the wee flower THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. IN Eastern lands they talk in flowers, And they tell in a garland their loves and cares; Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers, On its leaves a mystic language bears. The Rose is a sign of joy and love Young blushing love in its earliest dawn; And the mildness that suits the gentle dove, From the Myrtle's snowy flower is drawn. Innocence shines in the Lily's bell, Pure as the heart in its native heaven; The silent, soft, and humble heart, In the Violet's hidden sweetness breathes; And the tender soul that cannot part, A twine of Evergreen fondly wreathes. The Cypress that daily shades the grave, Then gather a wreath from the garden bowers, PERCIVAL. THE PRIMROSE. THE milk-white blossoms of the thorn Moved by the wind that breathes along The hawthorn clusters bloom above, The primrose hides below, And on the lonely passer-by A modest glance doth throw! The humble primrose' bonnie face Where other flowers disdain to bloom, 15 Like God's own light, on every place And where its dwelling-place is made, Where'er the green-winged linnet sings, Till thou becomest prized and loved, The stars are sweet at eventide, The clouds are soft in summer time, The rose is rich-but pride of place God's simple common things I love- I love the fireside of my home, And while admiring all the flowers 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 teemed around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold. I love you for lulling me back into dreams Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, Even now, what affections the violet awakes; What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks, Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear, Had scathed my existence's bloom; Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, THOMAS CAMPBELL. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786. WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flower, For I maun crush amang the stoure To spare thee now is past my power, Thou bonnie gem. Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Scarce reared above the parent earth The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, Adorns the histie stibble-field, There, in thy scanty mantle clad, But now the share uptears thy bed, Such is the fate of artless maid, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starred: Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, T And whelm him o'er! |