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He wept— the stars of Afric's heaven

Behold his bursting tears,
Ev'n on that spot where fate had given

The meed of toiling years !
Oh, happiness ! how far we fee
Thine own sweet paths in search of thee!

MRS. HEMANS.

THE WALL-FLOWER.

The wall-flower—the wall-flower,

How beautiful it blooms!
It gleams above the ruin’d tower,

Like sunlight over tombs ;
It sheds a halo of

repose Around the wrecks of Time; To beauty give the flaunting rose,

The wall-flower is sublime.

Flower of the solitary place!

Gray ruin's golden crown!
That lendest melancholy grace

To haunts of old renown :
Thou mantlest o'er the battlement,

By strife or storm decay'd ;
And fillest up each envious rent

Time's canker-tooth hath made.

Thy roots outspread the ramparts o'er,

Where, in war's stormy day,
The Douglases stood forth of yore,

In battle's grim array:
The clangour of the field is filed,

The beacon on the hill
No more through midnight blazes red-

But thou art blooming still!

Whither hath fled the choral band

That fill’d the abbey's nave ?
Yon dark sepulchral yew-trees stand

O’er many a level grave;
In the belfry’s crevices the dove

Her young brood nurseth well,
Whilst thou, lone flower, dost shed above

A sweet decaying smell.

In the season of the tulip cup,

When blossoms clothe the trees, How sweet to throw the lattice up,

And scent thee on the breeze.
The butterfly is then abroad,

The bee is on the wing,
And on the hawthorn by the road

The linnets sit and sing.

Sweet wall-flower, sweet wall-flower!

Thou con urest up to me
Full many a soft and sunny hour

Of boyhood's thoughtless glee,
When joy from out the daisies grew,

In woodland pastures green,
And summer skies were far more blue

Than since they e'er have been.

Now autumn's pensive voice is heard

Amid the yellow bowers, The robin is the regal bird,

And thou the Queen of Flowers !
He sings on the laburnum trees,

Amid the twilight dim,
And Araby ne'er gave the breeze

Such scents as thou to him.

Rich is the pink, the lily gay,

The rose is summer's guest;
Bland are thy charms when these decay,

Of flowers, first, last, and best!
There may be gaudier on the bower,

And statelier on the tree,
But, wall-flower, loved wall-flower,
Thou art the flower for me!"

MOIR.

A BARREN TRACT OF LAND.

Lo! where the heath, with withering brake grown

o'er, Lends the light turf that warms the neighbouring

poor From thence a length of burning sand appears, Where the thin harvest waves its wither'd ears ; Rank weeds, that every art and care defy, Reign o'er the land, and rob the blighted rye : There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar, And to the ragged infant threaten war; There poppies nodding, mock the hope of toil: There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil ; Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf, The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf; O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade, And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade; With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound, And a sad splendour vainly shines around.

CRABBE. A REMONSTRANCE,

ADDRESSED

OF BEING

TO A FRIEND WHO COMPLAINED

ALONE IN THE WORLD.

Oh! say not thou art all alone

Upon this wide, cold-hearted earth; Sigh not o'er joys for ever flown,

The vacant chair, — the silent hearth :
Why should the world's unholy mirth

Upon thy quiet dreams intrude,
To scare those shapes of heavenly birth

That people oft thy solitude!

Though many a fervent hope of youth

Hath pass'd, and scarcely left a trace ; Though earthborn love, its tears and truth,

No longer in thy heart have place: Nor time, nor grief, can e'er efface

The brighter hopes that now are thine, – The fadeless love, — all-pitying grace,

That makes thy darkest hours divine !

Not all alone for thou canst hold

Communion sweet with saint and sage, And gather gems, of price untold,

From many a pure, untravell’d page: Youth's dreams, the golden light of age,

The poet's lore,— are still thine own: Then, while such themes thy thoughts engage,

Oh, how canst thou be all alone!

Not all alone; the lark's rich note,

As mounting up to heaven she sings; The thousand silvery sounds that float Above - below —on morning's wings:

The softer murmurs twilight brings,

The cricket's chirp, cicala's glee :
All earth - that lyre of myriad strings -

Is jubilant with life for thee!

Not all alone : the whispering trees,

The rippling brook, the starry sky,-
Have each peculiar harmonies,

To soothe, subdue, and sanctify:
The low, sweet breath of evening's sigh,

For thee hath oft a friendly tone,
To lift thy grateful thoughts on high,

To say, thou art not all alone!

Not all alone; a watchful eye,

That notes the wandering sparrow's fall; A saving hand is ever nigh,

A gracious Power attends thy call ; When sadness holds thy heart in thrall,

Is oft His tenderest mercy shown: Seek then the balm vouchsaf'd to all, And thou canst never be ALONE.

A. A. WATTS.

THE SAILOR.

The Sailor sighs as sinks his native shore,
As all its lessening turrets bluely fade;
He climbs the mast to feast his eye once more,
And busy fancy fondly lends her aid.

Ah! now, each dear, domestic scene he knew,
Recall'd and cherish'd in a foreign clime,
Charms with the magic of a moon-light view ;
Its colours mellow'd, not impair'd, by time.

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