The purple heath and golden broom But this bold floweret climbs the hill, Within the garden's cultured round, The lambkin crops its crimson gem, "Tis Flora's page :-in every place, On waste and woodland, rock and plain, Its humble buds unheeded rise: The Rose has but a summer reign The Daisy never dies. MONTGOMERY. THE ROSE. THE rose had been washed, just washed in a shower, The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower, The cup was all filled, and the leaves were all wet, And it seemed, to a fanciful view, To weep for the buds it had left with regret, I hastily seized it, unfit as it was For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned, And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart, 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. COWPER. AN ITALIAN BOAT SONG. THE morn shines bright, As the stag bounds o'er the lea; We love the strife Of the sailor's life, And we love our dark blue sea. Now high, now low, To the depths we go, Now rise on the surge again; We make a track On the Ocean's back, And play with his hoary mane. Fearless we face The storm in its chase, When the dark clouds fly before it; And meet the shock Of the fierce siroc, Though Death breathes hotly o'er it. The landsman may quail Then I can feel life's troubled road ANON. THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. ONE morning (raw it was and wet, A foggy day in winter time), A woman on the road I met, Not old, though something past her prime; The ancient spirit is not dead; Old times, thought I, are breathing there; Such strength, a dignity so fair: She begged an alms, like one in poor estate; I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate. When from these lofty thoughts I woke, that you bear "What is it," said I, Beneath the covert of your cloak, Protected from this cold damp air?" She answered, soon as she the question heard, “A simple burden, sir—a little singing-bird." And, thus continuing, she said, "I had a son, who many a day Sailed on the seas, but he is dead; In Denmark he was cast away; And I have travelled weary miles to see If aught which he had owned might still remain for me. 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! I bear it with me, sir;-he took so much delight in it." WORDSWORTH. THE BLIND MOTHER. GENTLY, dear mother; here The bridge is broken near thee, and below Lean on me, mother-plant thy staff before thee. 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 the faint gray and crimson of the dawn, Quivers in tremulous softness on the sky-- And the kind looks of friends Low to thine ear with duty unforgot- But thou canst hear, and love May richly on a human tongue be poured; |