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THE IVY GREEN.

H! a dainty plant is the ivy green,

That creepeth o'er ruins old!

On right choice food are his meals, I ween,

In his cell so lone and cold.

The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim;

And the mouldering dust that years have made, Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,

A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on though he wears no wings,
And a staunch old heart has he;
How closely he twineth, how close he clings,
To his friend the huge oak tree!
And slily he traileth along the ground,

And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mould of dead men's graves.

Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;
But the stout old ivy shall never fade
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days
Shall fatten on the past:

For the statliest building man can raise
Is the ivy's food at last.

Creeping on where time has been,
A rare old plant is the ivy green!
CHARLES DICKENS.

TO A DAISY.

'HERE is a flower, a little flower
With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.

The prouder beauties of the field,
In gay but quick succession shine;
Race after race their honors yield,
They flourish and decline.

But this small flower, to nature dear,
While moons and stars their courses run,
Enwreathes the circle of the year,
Companion of the sun.

The purple heath and golden broom,
On moory mountains catch the gale;
O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume,
The violet in the vale.

But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.

Within the garden's cultured round
It shares the sweet carnation's bed;
And blooms on consecrated ground
In honor of the dead.

The lambkin crops its crimson gem;
The wild bee murmurs on its breast;
The blue-fly bends its pensile stem,
Light o'er the skylark's nest.

'Tis Flora's page-in every place,
In every season, fresh and fair;
It opens with perennial grace,
And blossoms everywhere.

On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise:
The rose has but a summer reign;
The daisy never dies!

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

THE CHANGING WORLD.

WRITTEN WHILE A PRISONER IN ENGLAND.

HE time hath laid his mantle by

Of wind and rain and icy chill,

And dons a rich embroidery

Of sunlight poured on lake and hill. No beast or bird in earth or sky,

Whose voice doth not with gladness thrill,

For time hath laid his mantle by

Of wind and rain and icy chill. River and fountain, brook and rill, Bespangled o'er with livery gay Of silver droplets, wind their way. All in their new apparel vie, For time hath laid his mantle by. CHARLES OF ORLEANS.

ON A SPRIG OF HEATH.

LOWER of the waste! the heath fowl shuns
For thee the brake and tangled wood-
To thy protecting shade she runs,

Thy tender buds supply her food;
Her young forsake her downy plumes,
To rest upon thy opening blooms.
Flower of the desert though thou art!
The deer that range the mountain free,
The graceful doe, the stately hart,

Their food and shelter seek from thee;
The bee thy earliest blossom greets,
And draws from thee her choicest sweets.
Gem of the heath! whose modest bloom
Sheds beauty o'er the lonely moor;
Though thou dispense no rich perfume,
Nor yet with splendid tints allure,
Both valor's crest and beauty's bower
Oft has thou decked, a favorite flower.

Flower of the wild! whose purple glow
Adorns the dusky mountain's side,
Not the gay hues of Iris' bow,

Nor garden's artful varied pride,

With all its wealth of sweets could cheer,
Like thee, the hardy mountaineer.
Flower of his heart! thy fragrance mild
Of peace and freedom seem to breathe;
To pluck thy blossoms in the wild,

And deck his bonnet with the wreath,
Where dwelt of old his rustic sires,
Is all his simple wish requires.
Flower of his dear-loved native land!
Alas, when distant far more dear!
When he from some cold foreign strand,

Looks homeward through the blinding tear, How must his aching heart deplore,

That home and thee he sees no more!

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No, no! the strange, sweet accents
That with it come and go,
They are not from the osiers,

Nor the fir-trees whispering low.
They are not of the waters,
Nor of the caverned hill;

'Tis the human love within us

That gives them power to thrill ; They touch the links of memory

Around our spirits twined,

And we start, and weep, and tremble,
To the wind, the wandering wind!
FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS.

THE ROSE.

'OW fair is the rose! that beautiful flower,

The glory of April and May;

But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour,
And they wither and die in a day.

Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast,
Above all the flowers of the field;

When its leaves are all dead, and its fine colors lost,
Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!

So frail is the youth and the beauty of men,
Though they bloom and look gay like the rose ;
But all our fond care to preserve them is vain,
Time kills them as fast as he goes.

Then I'll not be proud of my youth nor my beauty,
Since both of them wither and fade;

But gain a good name by well-doing my duty;
This will scent like a rose when I'm dead.

Many a swan-like song to thee

Hath been sung, thou gentle tree;

ISAAC WATTS.

Many a lute its last lament

Down thy moonlight stream hath sent

Willow, sighing willow!

Therefore, wave and murmur on,

Sigh for sweet affections gone,

And for tuneful voices fled,

And for love, whose heart hath bled,

Ever, willow, willow! FELICIA DOROTHEA HEmans.

THE WANDERING WIND.

HE wind, the wandering wind

Of the golden summer eves—
Whence is the thrilling magic
Of its tones amongst the leaves?
Oh! is it from the waters,

Or from the long, tall grass?
Or is it from the hollow rocks
Through which its breathings pass?

Or is it from the voices

Of all in one combined,

That it wins the tone of mastery!
The wind, the wandering wind!

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MAY DAY.

HE daisies peep from every field,
And violets sweet their odor yield;
And purple blossom paints the thorn,
And streams reflect the blush of morn,
Then lads and lasses all, be gay,
For this is nature's holiday.

Let lusty labor drop his flail,
Nor woodman's hook a tree assail;
The ox shall cease its neck to bow,
And Clodden yield to rest the plough.

Behold the lark in ether float, While rapture swells the liquid note! What warbles he, with merry cheer? "Let love and pleasure rule the year!"

Lo! Sol looks down with radiant eye, And throws a smile around his sky; Embracing hill, and vale, and stream, And warming nature with his beam.

The insect tribes in myraids pour, And kiss with zephyr every flower; Shall these our icy hearts reprove, And tell us what are foes to love? Then lads and lasses all, be gay, For this is nature's holiday.

JOHN WOLCOT.

TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER.

'HY fruit full well the schoolboy knows,
Wild bramble of the brake!

So put thou forth thy small white rose;
I love it for his sake.

Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow
O'er all the fragrant bowers,
Thou need'st not be ashamed to show
Thy satin-threaded flowers;

For dull the eye, the heart is dull,

That cannot feel how fair,

Amid all beauty beautiful,

Thy tender blossoms are!

How delicate thy gauzy frill!

How rich thy branchy stem!

How soft thy voice when woods are still,
And thou sing'st hymns to them:
When silent showers are falling slow,
And 'mid the general hush,

A sweet air lifts the little bough,

Lone whispering through the bush!
The primrose to the grave is gone;
The hawthorn flower is dead;
The violet by the moss'd grey stone
Hath laid her weary head;

But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring,
In all their beauteous power,

The fresh green days of life's fair spring,
And boyhood's blossomy hour.
Scorned bramble of the brake! once more
Thou bidd'st me be a boy,

To gad with thee the woodlands o'er,
In freedom and in joy.

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EBENEZER ELLIOTT.

A DAY IN JUNE.

ND what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays :
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within it that reaches and towers
And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of light may well be seen

Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf or a blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun

With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings ;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest-
In the nice ear of nature, which song is the best?
JAMES RUSSEll Lowell.

THE PRIMEVAL FOREST.

HIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and hemlocks,

Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,

Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and pro

phetic,

Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.

Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep voiced neighboring ocean

Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it

Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman?

HENRY WADSworth Longfellow.

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.

ILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire! Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Was nursed in whirling storms. And cradled in the winds.

Thee, when young spring first questioned winter's sway
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,
Thee on this bank he threw

To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year, Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, Unnoticed and alone,

Thy tender elegance.

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of chill adversity; in some lone walk

Of life she rears her head,
Obscure and unobserved;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows,
Chastens her spotless purity of breast,

And hardens her to bear
Serene the ills of life.

HARRY KIRke White.

THE LILY.

'OW withered, perished seems the form
Of yon obscure unsightly root!
Yet from the blight of wintry storm,
It hides secure the precious fruit.
The careless eye can find no grace,
No beauty in the scaly folds,
Nor see within the dark embrace
What latent loveliness it holds.

Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales,
The lily wraps her silver vest,
Till vernal suns and vernal gales
Shall kiss once more her fragrant breast.
Yes, hide beneath the mouldering heap
The undelighting slighted thing;
There in the cold earth buried deep,
In silence let it wait the spring.
Oh! many a stormy night shall close
In gloom upon the barren earth,
While still, in undisturbed repose,
Uninjured lies the future birth.
Sweet smile of hope, delicious tear!
The sun, the shower indeed shall come,
The promised verdant shoot appear,

And nature bid her blossoms bloom.

And thou, O virgin queen of spring!

Shalt, from thy dark and lowly bed, Bursting thy green sheath's silken string, Unveil thy charms and perfume shed;

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Unfold thy robes of purest white, Unsullied from their darksome grave, And thy soft petals' silvery light

In the mild breeze unfettered wave. So faith shall seek the lowly dust Where humble sorrow loves to lie, And bid her thus her hopes intrust, And watch with patient, cheerful eye; And bear the long, cold wintry night, And bear her own degraded doom; And wait till heaven's reviving light, Eternal spring! shall burst the gloom. MARY TIGHE

THE BRAVE OLD OAK.

SONG to the oak, the brave old oak,

Who hath ruled in the greenwood long; Here's health and renown to his broad green crown,

And his fifty arms so strong.

There's fear in his frown when the sun goes down,
And the fire in the west fades out;

And he showeth his might on a wild midnight,
When the storms through his branches shout.

Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak,
Who stands in his pride alone;
And still flourish he, a hale green tree,
When a hundred years are gone!

In the days of old, when the spring with cold
Had brightened his branches gray,

Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet,
To gather the dew of May.

And on that day to the rebeck gay

They frolicked with lovesome swains;

They are gone, they are dead, in the churchyard laid,
But the tree it still remains.

He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes
Were a merry sound to hear,

When the squire's wide hall and the cottage small
Were filled with good English cheer.
Now gold hath the sway we all obey,

And a ruthless king is he;

But he never shall send our ancient friend
To be tossed on the stormy sea.

HENRY FOTHergill Chorley.

THE CLOUD.

BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet birds every one,

When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under ;
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.
I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines grown aghast ;
'And all the night 'tis my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers, Lightning, my pilot, sits;

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,

It struggles and howls at fits;

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,

This pilot is guiding me,

Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;

Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The spirit he loves, remains;

And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,

Leaps on the back of my sailing rack

When the morning star shines dead,

As on the jag of a mountain crag,

Which an earthquake rocks and swings,

An eagle alit, one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings;

And when sunset may breathe from the lit sea beneath,

Its ardors of rest and of love,

And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above,

With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest,
As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn ;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,

The stars peep behind her and peer ;

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,

Like a swarm of golden bees,

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm river, lakes, and seas,

Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and thee.

I bind the sun's throng with a burning zone,
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl;

The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,

Over a torrent sea,

Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof,

The mountains its columns be.

The triumphal arch through which I march,
With hurricane, fire, and snow,

When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-colored bow;

The sphere-fire above, its soft colors wove,
While the moist earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of the earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky;

I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ·
I change, but I cannot die.

For after the rain, when, with never a stain,

The pavilion of heaven is bare,

And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex

gleams,

Build up the blue dome of air,

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain,

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the

tomb,

I rise and upbuild it again.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

COME TO THESE SCENES OF PEACE.

OME to these scenes of peace,

Where, to rivers murmuring,

The sweet birds all the summer sing,
Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease
Stranger, does thy heart deplore
Friends whom thou wilt see no more?

Does thy wounded spirit prove

Pangs of hopeless severed love?
Thee, the stream that gushes clear-

Thee, the birds that carol near

Shall soothe, as silent thou dost lie
And dream of their wild lullaby;
Come to bless these scenes of peace,
Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease.
WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.

SONG OF THE SUMMER WINDS.

OWN the glen, across the mountain,
O'er the yellow heath we roam,
Whirling round about the fountain,
Till its little breakers foam.
Bending down the weeping willows,
While our vesper hymn we sigh;
Then unto our rosy pillows

On our weary wings we hie.
There of idlenesses dreaming,
Scarce from waking we refrain,
Moments long as ages deeming
Till we're at our play again.

GEORGE DARLEY.

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