No longer autumn's glowing red
Upon our forest hills is shed;
No more, beneath the evening beam,
Fair Tweed reflects their purple gleam;
Away hath pass'd the heather-bell
That bloom'd so rich in Needpath fell;
Sallow his brow, and russet bare
Are now the sister heights of Yair.
The sheep, before the pinching heaven,
To shelter'd dale and down are driven,
Where yet some faded herbage pines,
And yet a watery sunbeam shines:
In meek despondency they eye
The wither'd sward and wintry sky,
And far beneath their summer hill,
Stray sadly by Glenkinnon's rill:
The shepherd shifts his mantle's fold,
And wraps him closer from the cold
His dogs no merry circles wheel,
But, shivering, follow at his heel;
A cowering glance they often cast,
As deeper moans the gathering blast.
My imps 2, though hardy, bold, and wild,
As best befits the mountain child,
Feel the sad influence of the hour,
And wail the daisy's vanish'd flower;
Their summer gambols lithe, and mourn,
And anxious ask,- Will spring return,
And birds and lambs again be gay,
And blossoms clothe the hawthorn spray?
* Imp, an old word for son, offspring-as, "that noble imp your son" (Lord Cromwell to King Henry); "a lad of life, an imp of fame."— Shakespere.
Yes, prattlers, yes. The daisy's flower
Again shall paint your summer bower;
Again the hawthorn shall supply
The garlands you delight to tie;
The lambs upon the lea shall bound,
The wild birds carol to the round,
And while you frolic light as they,
Too short shall seem the summer day.
THRICE welcome, little English flower!
My mother-country's white and red,
In rose or lily, till this hour,
Never to me such beauty spread:
Transplanted from thine island-bed,
A treasure in a grain of earth,
Strange as a spirit from the dead,
Thine embryo sprang to birth.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
Whose tribes beneath our natal skies,
Shut close their leaves while vapours lower :
But when the sun's gay beams arise,
With unabash'd, but modest eyes,
Follow his motion to the west,
Nor cease to gaze till daylight dies,
Then fold themselves to rest.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
To this resplendent hemisphere,
Where Flora's giant offspring tower
In gorgeous liveries all the year;
Thou, only thou, art little here 1,
Like worth unfriended and unknown, Yet to my British heart more dear Than all the torrid zone.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
Of early scenes, belov'd by me,
While happy in my father's bower,
Thou shalt the blithe memorial be;
The fairy sports of infancy,
Youth's golden age, and manhood's prime,
Home, country, kindred, friends
I find in this far clime.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
I'll rear thee with a trembling hand:
Oh, for the April sun and shower,
The sweet May dews of that fair land,
Where daisies, thick as star-light, stand
In every walk! that here may shoot
Thy scions, and thy buds expand,
A hundred from one root.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
To me the pledge of hope unseen;
When sorrow would my soul o'erpower,
For joys that were, or might have been,
I'll call to mind, how, fresh and green,
I saw thee waking from the dust;
Then turn to heaven with brow serene,
And place in God my trust.2
Amidst the luxuriance of tropical vegetation, there are comparatively but few small plants, like the multifarious species of our native Flora.
'The above stanzas are supposed to be addressed to a daisy by the learned and illustrious Dr. Carey, one of the first Baptist missionaries to India, where they had established them
As at their work two weavers sat
Beguiling time with friendly chat,
They touch'd upon the price of meat,
So high, a weaver scarce could eat!
"What with my babes and sickly wife,"
Quoth Dick, "I'm almost tir'd of life;
So hard we work, so poor we fare,
'Tis more than mortal man can bear.
"How glorious is the rich man's state!
His house so fine, his wealth so great!
Heaven is unjust, you must agree:
Why all to him, and none to me?
"In spite of what the Scripture teaches,
In spite of all the pulpit preaches,
This world, indeed, I've thought so long, -
Is rul'd, methinks, extremely wrong.
"Where'er I look, howe'er I range,
Tis all confus'd, and hard, and strange;
The good are troubled and opprest,
And all the wicked are the blest."
selves at Serampore, in the province of Bengal. On receiving some seed from England, the Doctor, to lose none of its contents, shook the bag of earth in which they were enclosed over a bed in his garden, and a few days afterwards, found, to his inexpressible delight, that a daisy had sprung up. "I know not," he says, "that I ever enjoyed, since leaving Europe, a simple pleasure so exquisite, as the sight of this English daisy afforded me; not having seen one for upwards of thirty years, and never expecting to see one again." With great care and nursing, the Doctor was able to perpetuate the daisy in India, out as an annual only, reared by seed from season to season.
Quoth John, "Our ignorance is the cause,
Why thus we blame our Maker's laws
Parts of his ways alone we know,
'Tis all that man can see below.
"See'st thou that carpet, not half done, Which thou, dear Dick, hast well begun ? Behold the wild confusion there!
So rude the mass, it makes one stare!
“ A stranger, ignorant of the trade,
Would say, no meaning's there convey'd ;
For where's the middle, where's the border?
Thy carpet now is all disorder."
Quoth Dick, "My work is yet in bits:
But still in every part it fits:
Besides, you reason like a lout:
Why, man, that carpet's inside out."
Says John, "Thou say'st the thing I mean,
And now I hope to cure thy spleen:
This world, which clouds thy soul with doubt,
Is but a carpet inside out.
"As when we view these shreds and ends,
We know not what the whole intends;
So, when on earth things look but odd,
They're working still some scheme of God.
"No plan, no pattern, can we trace;
All wants proportion, truth, and grace;
The motley mixture we deride,
Nor see the beauteous upper side.
"But when we reach the world of light,
And view these works of God aright;
Then shall we see the whole design,
And own, the Workman is Divine.
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