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The mother's cares, the baby's cries.
Now, every mother in the isle,

When she beholds her infant smile,
Should have a good wish and a prayer
For her the matron Queen so fair;

Who, though a Queen, has that in common
With every homely household woman,
That she has got a babe to love,

And knows there is a God above
That will the babes alike receive;
For they have all one mother Eve-
May in one well of life be laved,

And by one Jesus shall be saved.

Oh! may that God prepare

their hearts,

Alike to fill their several parts.

Dec., 1840.

THE GUERNSEY LILY.

AMARYLLIS SAMIENSIS.

"This plant was brought from Japan, where it was found by Kaempfer and also by Thunberg, who visited that country in 1775. It was first cultivated in the garden of John Morin, at Paris, where it blowed for the first time on the 7th of October, 1634. It was then made known by Jacob Cornutus, under the name of Narcissus Japonicus flore rutilo.' After this it was again noticed by John Ray, in 1665, who called it the Guernsey Lily. A ship, returning from Japan, was wrecked on the coasts of Guernsey, and a number of the bulbs of this plant, which were on board, being cast on shore, took root in that sandy soil."-Beckman's Inventions, vol. iii.

FAR in the East, and long to us unknown,
A lily bloom'd, of colours quaint and rare;
Not like our lilies, white, and dimly fair,
But clad like Eastern monarch on his throne.

A ship there was by stress of tempest blown,
And wreck'd on beach, all sandy, flat, and bare;—
The storm-god bated of his rage to spare

The queenly flower, foredoom'd to be our own.

The Guernsey fisher, seeking what the sea

Had stolen to aid his hungry poverty,
Starts to behold the stranger from afar,
And wonders what the gorgeous thing might be,
That like an unsphered and dejected star

Gleam'd in forlorn and mateless majesty.

TO A YOUNG LADY FROM A FOREIGN CLIME.

THOU Sweet exotic, lovely brown!

No fair one could be sweeter,—

Young as thou art, thou wilt not frown

Upon an old man's metre.

Rich is the sky where thou wert born,
And gorgeous were the flowers;
But yet I trust thou wilt not scorn
This cold blue sky of ours.

And though the flowers of Westmorland
Do not surcharge the wind

With burden of perfume so bland
As flowers of Western Ind;

Yet are they sweet if they be sought
Where careless eyes would miss them;
They crouch so low, as if they thought
A maid should stoop to kiss them.

Our little birds they are not deck'd

With hues of molten gems;

Their modest plumes do not reflect

The rays of diadems.

But yet they twitter sweetly, sweetly,

Their little notes so clear,

Methinks they could not sing more fitly To little maiden's ear.

There is a blackness in thine hair—

A deep black in thine eye— That do not speak of English air,

But of a hotter sky.

And there is something in the mouth,

Not easy to be told,

That marks thee of the passionate south,

And not of northern mould.

Then learn to love all simple things,

That pretty are and cool.

Look how the swallow dips its wings,

And glides along the pool;

For it hath felt the Afric suns

Voluptuously hot,

Yet comes to rear its little ones

Beside the English cot.

So may'st thou keep the tropic glow And the full joy of life,

Yet tame thy current to the flow

Of a cheerful English wife.

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