A GARLAND OF SPRING FLOWERS.
A garland, a garland,
Of blossoms fresh and fair;
A garland, a garland,
We twine for spring to wear.
We'll pluck the flowerets waking,
And bursting into birth,
While she her way is taking
O'er the reviving earth.
The snowdrop, the snowdrop,
The foremost of the train;
The snowdrop, the snowdrop,
Whose lustre bears no stain.
In modest beauty peerless,
It shows its little bell,
Thro' frost and snow so cheerless,
Of sunny days to tell.
The crocus, the crocus,
Unheeding wind or rain;
The crocus, the crocus,
Comes peeping up again.
In purple, white, or yellow,
So charming to the sight,
We scarce can find its fellow
For colours pure and bright.
The daisy, the daisy,
Spread wide o'er hill and dale;
The daisy, the daisy,
No season knows to fail.
Though bitter blasts are blowing
Its lovely buds unfold,
A crown of silver showing,
And breast of yellow gold.
The violet, the violet,
From sheltered mossy bed, The violet, the violet,
Just lifts its purple head. Beneath the hedgerow hiding,
Where wither'd leaves are cast,
It cares not for the chiding
Of March's angry blast.
The primrose, the primrose,
Beneath the ancient trees
The primrose, the primrose,
Seeks shelter from the breeze.
Or where the streamlet dances
'Mid rocky banks and steep,
To catch the sun's first glances
Its early flowerets peep.
The cowslip, the cowslip,
With leaves so fresh and green
The cowslip, the cowslip,
With speckled bells is seen.
Its bold and hardy flowers
Shoot up among the grass;
Nor fear the driving showers
That o'er the meadows pass.
A garland, a garland,
Of blossoms rich and fair; A garland, a garland,
We'll bind for spring to wear. With butter-cups entwining, The blue-bells shall be there,
With hawthorn's bloom combining,
And lilies white and fair.
Sabbath holy!
To the lowly
Still thou art a welcome day!
When thou comest, earth and ocean,
Shade and brightness, rest and motion,
Help the poor man's heart to pray.
Sun-wak'd forest!
Bird, that soarest
O'er the mute, empurpled moor! Throstle's song, that stream-like flowest! Wind, that over dew-drop goest! Welcome now the woe-worn poor.
Little river,
Young for ever!
Cloud, gold bright with thankful glee! Happy woodbine, gladly weeping! Gnat, within the wild rose keeping!
Oh! that they were bless'd as ye!
Sabbath holy!
For the lowly
Paint with flowers thy glittering sod;
For affliction's sons and daughters,
Bid the mountains, woods, and waters,
Pray to God, the poor man's God!
FROM THE GERMAN OF KRUMMACHER.
The rosy hills adorning,
Our happy Sabbath morning
Comes flying down with noiseless wings.
To meet him we will sally,
He comes to bless the valley,
And light, and joy, and flowers he brings.
All greenly drest to greet him,
The fields send up, to meet him,
The merry lark, their messenger;
The nightingales are chanting,
And roses gaily flaunting,
With fresher fragrance load the air.
But we'll assemble rather,
To praise our Heavenly Father,
Who sent the spring, who decked the land;
He leads the giant planet,
With mountain ribs of granite,
A little lambkin, by the hand.
The tiny glow-worms even,
As well as worlds in heaven,
Are all his children great and small;
Alike on stars and daisies
With watchful eye he gazes,
And opens his full hand to all.
With all that here rejoices,
We join our happy voices,
Our gladness be a song of praise;
He's praised by bower and blossom,
Then wake, my thankful bosom,
And glorify his works and ways!
J. S. Stallybrass. (by per.)
MY NATIVE LAND
Before all lands in East or West,
I love my native land the best;
With God's best gifts 'tis teeming;
No gold or jewels here are found,
Yet men of noble souls abound,
And eyes of joy are gleaming.
Before all tongues in East or West,
I love my native tongue the best;
Tho' not so smoothly spoken,
Nor woven with Italian art,
Yet when it speaks from heart to heart,
The word is never broken.
Before all people East or West,
I love my countrymen the best;
A race of noble spirit;
A sober mind, a generous heart,
To virtue trained, yet free from art,
They from their sires inherit.
To all the world I give my hand,
My heart I give my native land;
I seek her good, her glory;
I honour every nation's name,
Respect their fortune and their famc,
But love the land that bore me.
SUMMER LONGINGS.
Ah! my heart is weary waiting,
Waiting for the May-
Waiting for the pleasant rambles,
Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles,
With the woodbine alternating,
Scent the dewy way.
Ah! my heart is weary waiting,
Waiting for the May.
Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May-
Sighing for their sure returning,
When the summer beams are burning,
Hopes and flowers that dead or dying
All the winter lay.
Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May.
Ah! my heart is pain'd with throbbing,
Throbbing for the May-
Throbbing for the sea-side billows,
Or the water-wooing willows;
Where in laughing and in sobbing
Glide the streams away.
Ah! my heart, my heart is throbbing,
Throbbing for the May.
I knew a boy, whose infant feet had trod
Upon the blossoms of some seven springs,
And when the eighth came round, and called him out
To gambol in the sun, he turned away,
And sought his chamber, to lie down and die!
'Twas night-he summoned his accustomed friends, And, on this wise, bestowed his last bequest:
"Mother! I'm dying now
There is deep suffocation in my breast,
As if some heavy hand my bosom prest;
And on my brow
"I feel the cold sweat stand;
My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breath
Comes feebly up. Oh! tell me, is this death?
Mother! your hand-
"Here-lay it on my wrist,
And place the other thus, beneath my head,
And say, sweet mother!-say, when I am dead,
Shall I be missed?
"Never beside your knee
Shall I kneel down again at night to pray,
Nor with the morning wake, and sing the lay
You taught to me!
"Oh, at the time of prayer,
When you look round and see a vacant seat,
You will not wait then for my coming feet-
You'll miss me there!"
"Father! I'm going home!
To the good home you speak of, that blest land
Where it is one bright summer always, and
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