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FLOWERS.

The impatient morn,
With gladness on his wings, calls forth, “ Arise !
To trace the hills, the vales, where thousand dyes

The ground adorn,
While the dew sparkles yet within the violets' eyes :"

And when the day
In golden slumber sinks, with accent sweet
Mild evening comes to lure the willing feet

With her to stray,
Where'er the bashful flowers the observant eye may greet.

Near the moist brink
Of music-loving streams they ever keep,
And often in the lucid fountains peep ;

Oft, laughing, drink
Of the mad torrent's spray, perch'd near the thundering

steep :

And everywhere
Along the plashy marge and shallow bed
Of the still waters, they innumerous spread ;

Rock'd gently there
The beautiful nymphæa pillows its bright head.

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Within the dell,
Within the rocky clefts they love to hide ;
And hang adventurous on the steep hill-side,

Or rugged fell
Where the young eagle waves his wings in youthful pride.

In the green sea
Of forest leaves, where Nature wanton plays,
They modest bloom, though through the verdant maze

The tulip-tree
Its golden chalice oft triumphantly displays;

And of pure white,
Embedded 'mid its glossy leaves on high,
There the superb magnolia lures the eye ;

While, waving light,
The locusts' myriad tassels scent the ambient sky.

But, Oye bowers,
Ye valleys where the Spring perpetual reigns,
And flowers unnumber'd o'er the purple plains

Exuberant showers-
How Fancy revels in your lovelier domains !

All love the light;
And yet what numbers spring within the shade,
And blossom where no foot may ere invade !

'Till comes a blight,-
Comes unaware,—and then incontinent they fade !

And thus they bloom,
And thus their lives ambrosial breathe away ;
Thus flourish too the lovely and the gay ;

And the same doom
Youth, beauty, flower, alike consigns to swift decay !

PICKERING.

THE PROGRESS OF KNOWLEDGE.

FIRED at first sight with what the muse imparts,
In fearless youth, we tempt the heights of arts,
While from the bounded level of our mind,
Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind;
But, more advanced, behold with strange surprise
New distant scenes of endless science rise !
So pleased at first the towering Alps we try,
Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky;
The eternal snows appear already past,
And the first clouds and mountains seem the last :
But, those attained, we tremble to survey
The growing labours of the lengthen'd way;
The increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes,
Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise!

POPE.

THE BEAUTIES OF SPRING.

I HAVE not seen the place could more surprise,
More beautiful in Nature's varied dyes.
Lo! the blue bind-weed doth itself unfold
With honeysuckle, and both these entwine
Themselves with briony and jessamine,
To cast a kind and odoriferous shade.
The balmy west-wind blows, and every sense
Is soothed and courted :-trees have got their heads,
The fields their coats, the dewy shining meads
Do boast the pansy, lily, and the rose,
And every flower doth laugh as zephyr blows.
The seas are now more even than the earth,
Or gently swell as curld by zephyr's breath ;
The rivers run as smoothèd by his hand;
The wanton heifer through the glassy land
Plays wildly free, her horns scarce budding yet;
While in the sunny fields the new-dropt lambs
Gambol, rejoicing round their milky dams.
Hark! how each bough a several music yields;
The lusty throstle, early nightingale,
Accord in tune, though vary in their tale ;
The chirping swallow, call’d forth by the sun,
And crested lark, doth her division run;
The yellow bees the air with music fill,
The finches carol, and the turtles bill.

BEN Jonson. THE ALPS AT DAYBREAK.

The sunbeams streak the azure skies,

And line with light the mountain's brow; With hounds and horns the hunters rise,

And chase the roebuck through the snow. The goats wind slow their wonted way,

Up craggy steeps and ridges rude, Mark’d by the wild wolf for his prey,

From desert cave or hanging wood.
And while the torrent thunders loud,

And as the echoing cliffs reply,
The huts peep o'er the morning cloud,
Perch'd like an eagle's nest on high.

ROGERS.

THE DIRGE OF THE YEAR.

ORPHAN hours, the year is dead,

Come and sigb, come and weep!
Merry hours, smile instead,

For the year is but asleep :
See, it smiles as it is sleeping,
Mocking your untimely weeping:

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