THE COWSLIP.

NFOLDING to the breeze of May
The Cowslip meets the vernal ray;
The topaz and the ruby gem
Her blossom's simple diadem;
And as the dew-drops gently fall,
They tip with pearls her coronal.
In princely halls and courts of kings
Its lustrous ray the diamond flings;
Yet few of those who see its beam
Amid the torch-light's dazzling gleam
As bright as though a meteor shone,
Can call the costly prize their own.
But gems of every form and hue
Are glittering here in morning dew;
Jewels that all alike may share,
As freely as the common air;
No niggard hand or jealous eye
Protects them from the passer-by.
Man to his brother shuts his heart,
And Science acts a miser's part;
But Nature with a liberal hand
Flings wide her stores o'er sea and land.

If gold she gives, not single grains
Are scatter'd far across the plains;
But, lo! the desert-streams are roll'd
O'er precious beds of virgin gold.
If flowers she offers, wreaths are given
As countless as the stars of heaven;
Or music-'tis no feeble note
She bids along the valley float;
Ten thousand nameless melodies
In one full chorus swell the breeze.
Oh! Art is but a scanty rill,
That genial seasons scarcely fill ;
But Nature needs no tide's return,
To fill afresh her flowing urn;
She gathers all her rich supplies
Where never-failing waters rise.

WILD GARLAND.

[F]

The Minstrel's Curse.

Girdled by odorous gardens, within whose flowery bound

A thousand twinkling rivulets in rainbow brightness wound.

There dwelt a king of pride and might—so runs the solemn tale— All on his throne he sat alone, so gloomy and so pale;

With thoughts of terror in his heart, and torture in his word,

His eye an eye of fury-his pen a bloody sword!

There came unto this castle a noble minstrel pair,

One crown'd with golden ringlets, and one with hoary hair ;
The aged minstrel with his harp upon a palfrey rode,

And by his side in youth's gay pride his blooming comrade strode.
The old man spake unto the youth, "My son, this fateful hour
Pour forth thy richest melodies and strains of deepest power;
And summon up thy mastery o'er joy and sorrow's spring,
For 'tis our task to touch to-night this stony-hearted king !"

Behold, beneath the pillar'd dome those simple minstrels stand;
There sate the monarch on his throne, his queen at his right hand;
He like the meteor's blood-red glare, in awful majesty-
She like the full moon, calm and fair, in summer's tranquil sky.

The aged minstrel struck his harp, he struck with wondrous skill,
And gathering richness as they rise, his notes the wide hall fill,
Blent with the youth's transparent voice, a stream as crystal sheen,
And, like some solemn spirit-strain, the old man's tones between.

They sang of spring-time and of love-of happy golden days,
Of freedom and of dauntlessness, of faith, and prayer, and praise ;
They sang of all sweet impulses the trembling heart that thrill,
They sang of all high thoughts that raise and purify the will.

Hushed is the mocking courtier-group that stands around the throne,
The king's defying warriors, the power of God they own;
The queen, in strange sweet pensiveness, all melting at the strain,
Plucks from her breast of snow a rose, and drops it to the twain.
"Ye have misled my people! seduce ye now my queen ?"
Thus, quivering with fury, spake that king of wrathful mien;
He hurls his flashing sword, it cleaves the youth's unguarded heart,
Thence, for a golden stream of song, doth life's red torrent start!

The Minstrel's Curse.

;

The hearers gaze, as though a bolt had fallen before their eyes,
While on his weeping master's breast the fair youth sinks and dies
The old man wraps him in his robe, and sets him on the steed,
And binds his drooping form upright, and leaves the place with speed.

Behold, before the lofty gate that white-haired minstrel stands,

His harp, of harps the fairest, he grasps with trembling hands;

Against a marble column he hath shattered it in twain,

And he cries, while hall and bower ring back his fearful tones again-

"Woe, woe, ye lofty galleries! let never music float

Along your mournful vacancy with soft and swelling note!
Vocal alone with sigh and groan, and slave's low step of dread,
Until the God of vengeance your pride in dust shall tread !
"Woe, woe, ye fragrant gardens, beneath May's sunny glance!
Look on these dull and glassy eyes, this ghastly countenance !
Your pleasant shades shall wither, your fountains shall be dry,
A bleak and stony wilderness your wide-spread lawns shall lie!
“Woe, woe, thou ruthless murderer! thou curse of minstrel fame !
Vainly thou seek'st a bloody wreath to twine around thy name !
That name shall be forgotten in the depths of endless night,
And, like a bubble on the air, shall vanish from the sight!"

The old man lifted up his voice, and Heaven hath heard his cry;
Those stately halls are desolate, in dust those turrets lie;
One lonely column stands to tell of glories passed away-
Even this, already shattered, may fall ere dawn of day.
Around, for odorous gardens, there's a waste on every hand,
No tree gives grateful shadows, no fountain breaks the sand;
Nor can ye find that monarch's name in legend, tale, or verse,
It hath perished—it is nothing :—behold the MINStrel's Curse!

UHLAND.