The wind flower and the violet, they perished long ago; And the wild rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen. And now when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light, the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood, and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side; In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief: Yet not unmeet it was that one like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. HUMAN LIFE. Walter Scott. TWIST ye, twine ye, even so While the mystic twist is spinning, Passions wild, and follies vain; THE FROSTED TREES. Anon. WHAT strange enchantment meets my view, Or am I borne to regions new, To see the glories there? Last eve, when sunset fill'd the sky And sleepy mists came down to lie But now the scene is changed, and all The trees last eve so straight and tall, And streams of living daylight fall The boughs are strung with glittering pearls, Seeming in wild fantastic whirls The work of fairy land. Each branch stoops meekly with the weight, Upon its graceful curves, And made the fibres spring elate, Oh! I could dream the robe of heaven, From the sky at silent even For the morning's glorious show. HUMAN PERFECTION. Ben Jonson. Ir is not growing like a tree Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night, CHRISTMAS CHIMES. Anon. THE chimes, the chimes of Motherland, Of England, green and old, That out from fane and ivied tower Those chimes that tell a thousand tales, Sweet tales of olden time! And ring a thousand memories At vesper and at prime At bridal and at burial, For cottager and king Those chimes, those glorious Christmas chimes, How blessedly they ring! Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland, For a Redeemer born! How merrily they call afar, To cot and baron's hall, With holly deck'd and mistletoe, |