OUR Sweet, autumnal western-scented wind,
Robs of its odors none so sweet a flower,
In all the blooming waste it left behind,
As that the Sweet-brier yields it; and the shower
Wets not a rose that buds in beauty's bower
One half so lovely;-yet it grows along
The poor girl's pathway, by the poor man's door,-
Such are the simple folk it dwells among;
And humble as the bud, so humble be the song.
I love it, for it takes its untouched stand, Not in the vase that sculptors decorate; Its sweetness all is of my native land; And e'en its fragrant leaf has not its mate Among the perfumes which the rich and great Buy from the odors of the spicy east. You love your flowers and plants; and will The little four-leaved rose that I love best, That freshest will awake, and sweetest go to rest?
I am the spirit that dwells in the flower;
Mine is the exquisite music that flies,
When silence and moonlight reign over each bower
That blooms in the glory of tropical skies.
I woo the bird, with his melody glowing,
To flit in the sunshine and warble its strain;
And mine is the odor, in turn, that bestowing,
The songster is paid for his music again.
There dwells no sorrow where I am abiding;
Care is a stranger, and troubles us not;
And the winds, as they pass, when too hastily riding,
I woo, and they tenderly glide o'er the spot.
They pause, and we glow in their rugged embraces;
They drink our warm breath rich with odor and song,
Then hurry away to their desolate places,
And look for us hourly, and think of us long.
Who of the dull earth, that's moving around us,
Would ever imagine, that, nursed in a rose,
At the opening of spring, our destiny found us
A prisoner until the first bud should unclose;
Then, as the dawn of light breaks upon us,
Our winglets of silk we unfold to the air,
And leap off in joy to the music that won us,
And made us the tenants of climates so fair?
W. G. Simms.
Thou blossom, bright with autumn dew,
And colored with the heaven's own blue,
Thou openest when the quiet light
Succeeds the keen and frosty night.
Thou comest not when violets lean O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, /Or columbines, in purple drest,
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.
Thou waitest late and com'st alone,
When woods are bare, and birds are flown,
And frosts, and shortening days portend
The aged year is near its end.
Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue-blue-as if that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.
I would that thus, when I shall see
The hour of death draw near to me,
Hope blossoming within my heart,
May look to heaven as I depart.
TO THE TRAILING ARBUTUS.*
Thou comest when Spring her coronal weaves,
And thou hidest thyself mid dead strewn leaves;
Where the young grass lifts its tender blade,
Thy home and thy resting-place are made;
And in the spot of thy lowly birth,
Unseen, thou bloomest, like modest worth:
(The richest jewel, the rarest gem
May never glow in a diadem.
What knowest thou of the glittering pride
Of vales that blush, like a jewelled bride-
When the pomp of roses and gilded flowers
Springs mid the falling of Summer showers?
What can'st thou know of those breathing skies,
Adorned with the diamonds of Paradise-
Or the sunrise crown, or the golden flow
Of noontide streams in their deep warm glow ?
Thou comest from Winter's cold caress,
To rejoice in the young Spring's loveliness:
But thou seest the sky when the cloud appears,
And the blue eye of heaven is dim with tears;
And, cold and clear, o'er thy dewy bed
The starbeam lustre of night is shed;¦
And no bright-tinting flashes are seen,
Though morn be cloudless and eve serene.
Yet, flower of Modesty, born alone-
When the leaves of Autumn still lie strown,
Art thou not dearer, in Spring's first prime,
Than the fairest rose of the Summer time?
Thus in her pathway of joy and light,
Away from the idle gazer's sight,
'Tis meet that Beauty should pass her hour,
Lonely and modest, like thee, sweet flower!
*The Trailing Arbutus is a sort of strawberry vine, found in New England in March, the earliest of all spring flowers.
I love thee, pretty nursling
Of vernal sun and rain;
For thou art Flora's firstling,
And leadest in her train.
When far away I found thee,
It was an April morn ;
The chilling blast blew round thee,
No bud had decked the thorn.
And thou alone wert hiding
The mossy rocks between, Where, just below them gliding, The Merrimack was seen.
And while my hand was brushing
The seary leaves from thee,
It seemed that thou were blushing,
To be disclosed to me.
Thou didst reward my ramble,
By shining at my feet,
When, over brake and bramble,
I sought thy lone retreat.
As some sweet flower of pleasure
Upon our path may bloom,
Mid rocks and thorns, that measure
Our journey to the tomb.
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