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And guessed some infant hand had placed it there,
And prized its hue, so exquisite, so rare.
Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling rose,
My heart felt every thing but calm repose;
I could not reckon minutes, hours, nor years,
But rose at once, and bursted into tears;
Then, like a fool, confused, sat down again,
And thought upon the past with shame and pain;
I raved at war and all its horrid cost,
And glory's quagmire, where the brave are lost;
On carnage, fire, and plunder, long I mused,
And curst the murdering weapons I had used.
Two shadows then I saw, two voices heard,
One bespoke age, and one a child's appeared; .,
In stepped my father, with convulsive, start,
And in an instant clasped me to his heart. .
Close by him stood a little blue-eyed maid, ., ,.,
And stooping to the child, the old man said,. _
'Come hither, Nancy, kiss me once again, ... j
'This is your uncle Charles, come back from Spain,'
The child approached, and with her fingers light,:
Stroked my old eyes almost deprived of sight— ,j
But why thu9 spin my tale, thus tedious be? .; ■
Happy old soldier I what's the world to me !, ,;.
, . ,,. Blopm/ield. A FIELD FLOWER.
There is a flower, a little flower,
That welcomes every changing hour,
The prouder beauties of the field;'
Race after race'their honours yield,
But this small flower, to nature dear, '";
While moons'and stars their courses run, Wreathes the whole circle of the year,
Companion of the sun.''
It smiles upon the.lap of May,
To sultry August spreads its charms,
Lights pale October on his way,
The purple heath, and golden broom,
O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume,
But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Within the garden's cultured round,
And blooms on consecrated ground
The lambkin crops its crimson gem,
The blue fly bends its pensile stem,
'Tis Flora's page :—In every place,
It opens with perennial grace,
On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise;
The daisy never dies.
THE CAPTURE OF IPSARA.
Ipsara! thy glory is gone from the sea;
Ipsara! the sons of the valiant were thine,
And lovely thy daughters, and worthy to grace
But the warrior-bands in their places are riven, .
Oh! whence came the ruin that swept to the grave
Twas not the fierce foe, in his valour that came
And then did the dark hordes, who fled from the brave,
But worthy their fathers, their cause and their name,