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And in blossomed vale and grove
Every shepherd knelt to love.

Then a rosy, dimpled cheek,
And a blue eye, fond and meek;
And a ringlet-wreathen brow,
Like hyacinths on a bed of snow:
And a low voice, silver sweet,
From a lip without deceit;
Only those the hearts could move
Of the simple swains to love.

But that time is gone and past,
Can the summer always last?
And the swains are wiser grown,
And the heart is turned to stone,
And the maiden's rose may wither;
Cupid's fled, no man knows whither.
But another Cupid 's come,
With a brow of care and gloom:
Fixed upon the earthly mould,
Thinking of the sullen gold;
In his hand the bow no more,
At his back the household store,
That the bridal gold must buy:
Useless now the smile and sigh:
But he wears the pinion still,
Flying at the sight of ill.

O, for the old true-love time,
When the world was in its prime!

To waft thy waste perfume!
Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow;
And as I twine the mournful wreath,
I'll weave a melancholy song:
And sweet the strain shall be and long,
The melody of death.

Come, press my lips, and lie with

me

Beneath the lowly alder-tree,

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
And not a care shall dare intrude,
To break the marble solitude
So peaceful and so deep.

Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell
With the pale corpse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom
A sweet decaying smell.

And hark! the wind-god, as he flies,
Moans hollow in the forest trees,
And sailing on the gusty breeze,
Mysterious music dies.

Sweet flower! that requiem wild is
mine,

It warns me to the lonely shrine,
The cold turf altar of the dead;
My grave shall be in yon lone spot,
Where as I lie, by all forgot,

A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my
ashes shed.

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.

MILD offspring of a dark and sullen
sire!

Whose modest form, so delicately fine,
Was nursed in whirling storms,
And cradled in the winds.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

[1785-1806.]

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.

In this low vale, the promise of the
year,

SWEET-SCENTED flower! who 'rt wont to Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale,

bloom

On January's front severe,

Unnoticed and alone,
Thy tender elegance.

And o'er the wintry desert drear

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.

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