And even when dazzling in her life's best hour,
Bloom on her cheek, and beauty on her brow,
Oh! was she not a weak and worthless flower,
Compar'd with what she is in glory now?
That form, so peerless once, was but of clay;
That heart, tho' warm, was mortal in its feeling;
But radiant now in heaven's eternal day,
Each moment as it flies is aye revealing.

More and more clear the spirit's perfect mind;
Whose holy eye our noblest darings here
View but in sorrow, and compassion kind,
And o'er their stain lets fall an angel's tear!


Oh endless mystery of Almighty power
That from the acorn rears the giant tree,
And grants to faith, for a triumphant dower,
The crown that never fades of Immortality.



HAPPY insect! what can be
In happiness compar'd to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup does fill;
"Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread,
Nature's self thy Ganymede.

Thou dost drink, and dance and sing,
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants, belong to thee;

All that summer-hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice:
Man for thee does sow and plow;
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Thou dost innocently joy,
Nor does thy luxury destroy.
The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.

The country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripen'd year!

Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire;
Phoebus is himself thy sire.
To thee of all things upon earth,
Life is no longer than thy mirth.

Happy insect! happy thou,

Dost neither age nor winter know:

But when thou'st drunk, and danc'd and sung Thy fill, the flow'ry leaves among,

(Voluptuous and wise withal,

Epicurean animal!)

Sated with thy summer feast,

Thou retir'st to endless rest.



Low was our pretty cot: our tallest rose
Peep'd at the chamber-window. We could hear
At silent noon, and eve, and early morn,
The sea's faint murmur. In the open air
Our myrtles blossom'd; and across the porch
Thick jasmins twined; the little landscape round
Was green and woody, and refresh'd the eye.
It was a spot which you might aptly call

The Valley of Seclusion! Once I saw
(Hallowing his sabbath-day by quietness)
A wealthy son of commerce saunter by,
Bristowa's citizen: methought, it calm'd
His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse
With wiser feelings: for he paus'd, and look'd
With a pleased sadness, and he gazed all around.
Then eyed our cottage, and gazed round again,
And sigh'd, and said, it was a blessed place.
And we were blessed. Oft with patient ear
Long-listening to the viewless sky-lark's note
(Viewless, or haply for a moment seen
Gleaming on sunny wing) in whisper'd tones
I've said to my beloved, Such, sweet girl!
'The inobtrusive song of happiness,

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Unearthly minstrelsy! then only heard

'When the soul seeks to hear; when all is hush'd, 'And the heart listens !'


GENTLE Nature, heavenly fair!
O, how sweet thy pleasures are!
In thy presence while I stay,
As a stream time glides away.
On thy bosom I would rest,
Like the turtle in her nest;
Tasting that sublime repose,
He who slights thee never knows.
Mother! lovely, meek, and mild,
Soothe the passions of thy child!
Line for line, and part for part,
Print thine image on my heart.


Let me in thy beauties trace
Him who lends me every grace;
Raise me to his splendid throne,
Thy Great Parent, and my own.
When his glories in thee shine,
Then thy face is all divine;
Like a mirror beaming bright
With a soft, celestial light.
Fount of light! I look to thee!
Smile on nature-smile on me!
Let thy humble suppliant know
Paradise reviv'd below.

Rev. A. Reed.


As through a garden late I rov'd,
And musing walk'd along,

While list'ning to the black bird's note,
Or linnet's cheerful song;

Around were flowers of various hues;
The pink and daisy pied;
When in the centre of a grove,

A blushing Rose I 'spied.

Eager to pluck the beauteous flower
I quickly hasten'd there;
Securely in my bosom plac'd,

And watch'd with tender care.

Its fragrant odours grateful were,
And pleasant to the sense;

Its leaves with brightest colours glow'd
Like virgin innocence.

But, lo, ère evening dews descend,
Those beauteous tints were fled;
Wither'd and blasted in their prime,
And droop'd its tow'ring head.
Sweet blossom! then I sighing said,
How soon thy beauties die;
The fairest flower the garden knows
With thee in vain would vie.

Be thou my silent monitor,

And warn my heedless youth The graces of the mind to seek In piety and truth.

For outward charms of shape or face

Soon wither like the rose; But virtue, lovely e'en in death,

Fresh beauties will disclose.



How pleasant the sight and the fragrance of groves,
Array'd in the blossoms of June and July:
When the minstrels of nature delightedly rove,
Beneath the arcade of a clear summer sky.

How grateful at noon, in the shade of a tree,
Which spreads within view of a cool lurking alley,
To catch the soft zephyrs which playfully flee,
And list to the streamlet that purls in the valley.

And O, I have lov'd in a forest remote,

To mark the tall cedar benignantly bending, And trailing its branches, while trees of less note, The pine and the poplar, delight in ascending.


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