There falls to manhood's lot
A joy which youth has not,
A dream more beautiful than truth,
Returning spring,-renewing youth!
Thus sweetly to surrender
The present for the past,
In sprightly mood yet tender,
Life's burden down to cast,-
This is to taste from stage to stage,.
Youth, or the lees refined of age;
Like wine well kept and long,
Heady, nor harsh, nor strong;-
A richer, purer, mellower draught
With every annual cup is fraught.
ON FINDING ONE IN FULL BLOOM ON CHRISTMAS DAY, 1803.
THERE 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 honours yield,
They flourish and decline.
But this small flower, to Nature dear,
While moons and stars their courses run,
Wreathes the whole circle of the year,
Companion of the sun.
It smiles upon the lap of May,
To sultry August spreads its charms,
Lights pale October on his way,
And twines December's arms.
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 honour 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 sky-lark'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.
On thy state
Whirlwinds wait,
And bloodshot meteors lend thee light;
Hence to dreary arctic regions
Summon thy terrific legions;
Hence to caves of northern night
Speed thy flight.
From halcyon seas
And purer skies,
O southern breeze!
Awake, arise:
Breath of heaven! benignly blow,
Breath of heaven! unchain the floods,
Warm the woods,
And make the mountains flow.
Auspicious to the muse's prayer,
The freshening gale
Embalms the vale,
And breathes enchantment through the air; On its wing
With glowing eye and golden hair:
Dark before her angel-form
She drives the Demon of the Storm,
Like Gladness chasing Care.
Winter's gloomy night withdrawn,
Lo! the young romantic hours
Search the hill, the dale, the lawn,
To behold the Snowdrop white
Start to light,
And shine in Flora's desert bowers.
Beneath the vernal dawn,-
The Morning Star of Flowers!
Oh, welcome to our isle,
Thou Messenger of Peace!
At whose bewitching smile
The embattled tempests cease:
Emblem of innocence and truth!
Firstborn of Nature's womb,
When strong in renovated youth,
She bursts from Winter's tomb;
Thy parent's eye hath shed
A precious dew-drop on thine head,
Frail as a mother's tear
Upon her infant's face,
When ardent hope to tender fear
And anxious love gives place.
But lo! the dew-drop flits away,
The sun salutes thee with a ray
Warm as a mother's kiss
Upon her infant's cheek,
When the heart bounds with bliss,
And joy that cannot speak!
When I meet thee by the way,
Like a pretty sportive child,
On the winter-wasted wild,
With thy darling breeze at play,
Opening to the radiant sky
All the sweetness of thine eye;
Or bright with sunbeams, fresh with showers,
O thou Fairy Queen of Flowers!
Watch thee o'er the plain advance
At the head of Flora's dance;
Simple Snowdrop! then in thee
All thy sister train I see:
Every brilliant bud that blows,
From the bluebell to the rose:
All the beauties that appear
On the bosom of the year:
All that wreathe the locks of Spring,
Summer's ardent breath perfume,
Or on the lap of Autumn bloom,-
All to thee their tribute bring,
Exhale their incense at thy shrine,-
Their hues, their odours all are thine!
For while thy humble form I view,
The muse's keen prophetic sight
Brings fair Futurity to light,
And Fancy's magic makes the vision true.
There is a winter in my soul,
The Winter of despair;
Oh, when shall Spring its rage control?
When shall the Snowdrop blossom there?
Cold gleams of comfort sometimes dart
A dawn of glory on my heart,
But quickly pass away:
Thus northern lights the gloom adorn,
And give the promise of a morn
That never turns to day!
But hark! methinks I hear
A still small whisper in mine ear:-
"Rash youth, repent!
Afflictions, from above,
Are angels sent
On embassies of love!
A fiery legion at thy birth,
Of chastening woes were given,
To pluck the flowers of Hope from carti,
And plant them high
Transformed to stars,—and fixed in heaven."
WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A LADY, WHO FURNISHED SEVERAL OF THE LINES AND THE PLAN OF THE WHOLE.
AH! who is she that sits and weeps,
And gazes on the narrow mound?
-In that fresh grave her true love sleeps,
Her heart lies with him in the ground:
She heeds not, while her babe, at play,
Plucks the frail flowers, that gaily bloom,
And casts them, ere they fade away,
In garlands, on its father's tomb;
Unconscious where its father lies,
66 Sweets to the sweet!" the prattler cries;
Ah! then she starts, looks up, her eyes o'erflow
With all a mother's love, and all a widow's woe.
Again she turns away her head,
Nor marks her infant's sportive air,
Its cherub cheeks all rosy-red,
Its sweet blue eyes and ringlet hair;
Silent she turns away her head,
Nor dare behold that happy face,
Where live the features of the dead
In lineaments of fairy grace;
In which at once, with transport wild,
She sees her husband and her child;
Ah! then her bosom burns, her eyes o'erflow
With all a mother's love, and all a widow's woe,
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