THE FLOWER OF BEAUTY.

How I'm puzzled and perplexed
What to choose or think of next!
I am in a little fever

Lest the name that I should give her
Should disgrace her or defame her;

I will leave papa to name her.

MARY LAMB.

THE FLOWER OF BEAUTY.

SWEET in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers,
Lulled by the faint breezes sighing through her hair;
Sleeps she, and hears not the melancholy numbers
Breathed to my sad lute amid the lonely air.

Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming,

To wind round the willow banks that lure him from above;

O that, in tears, from my rocky prison streaming,

I, too, could glide to the bower of my love!

Ah! where the woodbines, with sleepy arms, have wound her, Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay,

Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round her, To her lost mate's call in the forests far away!

Come, then, my bird! for the peace thou ever bearest,

Still heaven's messenger of comfort to me!

Come! this fond bosom, my faithfullest, my fairest,
Bleeds with its death-wound-but deeper yet for thee.

GEORGE DARLEY.

POOR JACK.

Go patter to lubbers and swabs, d'ye see,
'Bout danger, and fear, and the like;

A tight-water boat and good sea-room give me.
And it a'n't to a little I'll strike.

Though the tempest topgallant-mast smack smooth should smite,
And shiver each splinter of wood,

Clear the deck, stow the yards, and bouse everything tight,
And under reefed foresail we'll scud.

Avast! nor don't think me a milksop so soft
To be taken for trifles aback;

For they say there's a Providence sits up aloft,
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack!

I heard our good chaplain palaver one day
About souls, heaven, mercy, and such;
And my timbers! what lingo he'd coil and belay!
Why, 'twas just all as one as High Dutch;
For he said how a sparrow can't founder, d'ye see,
Without orders that come down below;

And a many fine things that proved clearly to me
That Providence takes us in tow;

For, says he, do you mind me, let storms ne'er so oft
Take the topsails of sailors aback,

There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft,

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack!

POOR JACK.

I said to our Poll-for, d'ye see, she would cry,
When last we weighed anchor for sea:

What argufies snivelling, and piping your eye?

Why what a damned fool you must be!

Can't you see the world's wide, and there's room for us all,

Both for seamen and lubbers ashore?

And if to old Davy I should go, friend Poll,

You never will hear of me more.

What then? All's a hazard; come, don't be so soft:

Perhaps I may laughing come back;

For, d'ye see, there's a cherub sits smiling aloft,
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack!

D'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch
All as one as a piece of the ship,

And with her brave the world, not offering to flinch
From the moment the anchor's a-trip.

As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides and ends,
Naught's a trouble from a duty that springs;

For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's my friend's,
And as for my life, 'tis the king's.

Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft

As for grief to be taken aback,

For the same little cherub that sits up aloft
Will look out a good berth for poor Jack!

CHARLES DIBDIN.

WE PARTED IN SILENCE.

WE parted in silence, we parted by night,
On the banks of that lonely river;
Where the fragrant limes their boughs unite,
We met and we parted forever!
The night-bird sang, and the stars above
Told many a touching story

Of friends long passed to the kingdom of love,
Where the soul wears its mantle of glory.

We parted in silence; our cheeks were wet
With the tears that were past controlling;
We vowed we would never

- no, never- forget, And those vows at the time were consoling;

But those lips that echoed the sounds of mine
Are as cold as that lonely river;

And that eye, the beautiful spirit's shrine,
Has shrouded its fires forever.

And now on the midnight sky I look,
And my heart grows full of weeping;

Each star is to me a sealed book,

Some tale of that loved one keeping.

THE SANDS O' DEE.

We parted in silence, we parted in tears,
On the banks of that lonely river;

But the odor and bloom of those by-gone years
Shall hang o'er its waters forever.

"O MARY, go and call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,