O! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM.

O! SNATCHED away in beauty's bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
But on thy turf shall roses rear

Their leaves, the earliest of the year,
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom.

And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream,
And lingering pause, and lightly tread:
Fond wretch as if her step disturbed the dead.

Away! we know that tears are vain,

That Death nor heeds nor hears distress :

Will this unteach us to complain,

Or make one mourner weep the less?

And thou, who tell'st me to forget,

Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

LORD BYRON.

TO PRIMROSES,

FILLED WITH MORNING DEW.

WHY do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears

Alas!

Speak grief in you,

Who were but born

Just as the modest morn
Teemed her refreshing dew?

ye have not known that shower
That mars a flower,

Nor felt the unkind

Breath of a blasting wind;

Nor are ye worn with years,

Or warped, as we,

Who think it strange to see

Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young,
Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimpering younglings! and make known The reason why

Ye droop and weep.

Is it for want of sleep,

Or childish lullaby?

Or that ye have not seen as yet

The violet?

Or brought a kiss

From that sweetheart to this?

TO BLOSSOMS.

No, no; this sorrow, shown

By your tears shed,

Would have this lecture read:

"That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,

Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth."

ROBERT HERRICK.

TO BLOSSOMS.

FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree,

Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past

But you may stay yet here awhile,
To blush and gently smile,
And go at last.

What! were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good-night?
'Tis pity Nature brought ye forth,
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave;
And, after they have shown their pride

Like you awhile, they glide

Into the grave.

ROBERT HERRICK.

TO DAFFODILS.

FAIR daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;

As yet the early-rising sun

Has not attained his noon :

Stay, stay

Until the hastening day

Has run

But to the even-song;

And, having prayed together, we

Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay as you;
We have as short a Spring,
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or anything.

We die,

As your hours do; and dry

Away

Like to the Summer's rain,

Or as the pearls of morning dew:

Ne'er to be found again.

ROBERT HERRICK.

"Ho, sailor of the sea!

How's my boy -my boy?"

"What's your boy's name, good wife,

And in what good ship sailed he?"