L'Amant. I sell to thee a Rosary, I to thee each thought resign: La Dame. I sell to thee a Parrot bright, But to love, I am unknown, L'Amant. I sell to thee a faded Wreath, La Dame. I sell to thee the Honey-flower, Courteous, best, and bravest knight, Fragrant in the summer shower, Shrinking from the sunny light: May it not an emblem prov What though in our pride's selfish mood DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS. BY WORDSWORTH. Where will they stop, those breathing Powers, From humble violet, modest thyme Their subtle flight could satisfy: Heaven will not tax our thoughts with pride, If like ambition be their guide. THE FLOWER SPIRITS ANON. We are the spirits that dwell in the flowers; To leap in the sunshine and warble his strain; There dwells no sorrow where we are abiding; Care is a stranger, and troubles us not; And the winds, as they pass, when too hastily riding, We 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 odour 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 is moving around us And leap off in joy to the music that won us, And made us the tenants of climates so fair. THE FLOWER SPIRIT. BY CHARLES SWAIN. When earth was in its golden prime, But there the spirit lingers yet, Though dimness o'er our visions fall; And flowers that seem with dew-drops wet, Weep angel-tears for human thrall; And sentiments and feelings move The soul, like oracles divine; And hearts that ever bowed to love, First found it by the flowers' sweet shrine., A voiceless eloquence and power, Language that hath in life no sound, Still haunts, like Truth, the spirit-flower And hallows even Sorrow's ground. The wanderer gives it Memory's tear, Whilst Home seems pictured on its leaf; And hopes, and hearts, and voices dear, Come o'er him-beautiful as brief. Tis not the bloom, though wild or rare, Which melts and moves our souls, to share Not far, not yet our reach beyond, I well believe a spirit dwells Within the flower! least changed of all FIELD FLOWERS. FROM BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE. Flowers of the field, how meet ye seem Blooming so fair in morning's beam, Passing at eve away; Teach this, and-oh! though brief your reign Sweet flowers ye shall not live in vain. Go, form a monitory wreath For youth's unthinking brow; Go, and to busy mankind breathe |