And in blossomed vale and grove Then a rosy, dimpled cheek, But that time is gone and past, O, for the old true-love time, HENRY KIRKE WHITE. [1785-1806.] TO THE HERB ROSEMARY. 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. And hark! the wind-god, as he flies, It warns me to the lonely shrine, The cold turf altar of the dead; A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my 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. 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, SWEET-SCENTED flower! who 'rt wont to Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, HERBERT KNOWLES. THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. WHEN marshalled on the nightly plain, The glittering host bestud the sky; One star alone, of all the train, Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks, Once on the raging seas I rode, The storm was loud, the night was dark, The ocean yawned, and rudely blowed The wind that tossed my foundering bark. Deep horror then my vitals froze, stem; When suddenly a star arose, It was the Star of Bethlehem. It was my guide, my light, my all, It bade my dark forebodings cease; 93 Shall we build to the purple of The trappings which dizen the proud? And through the storm and dangers' But the long winding-sheet and the fringe thrall, of the shroud. Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot Beneath-the cold dead, and around the dark stone, Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown! The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise; The second to Faith, which insures it fulfilled; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies. H |