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There falls to manhood's lot
A joy which youth has not,
Thus sweetly to surrender
The present for the past,
Life's burden down to cast,-
Like wine well kept and long,
Heady, nor harsh, nor strong ;-
A FIELD FLOWER.
ON FINDING ONE IN FULL BLOOM ON CHRISTMAS DAY, 1803.
THERE is a flower, a little flower,
With silver crest and golden eye,
And weathers every sky.
The prouder beauties of the field
In gay but quick succession shine,
They flourish' and decline.
But this small flower, to Nature dear,
While moons and stars their courses run,
Companion of the sun.
It smiles upon the lap of May,
To sultry August spreads its charms,
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.
WINTER, retire !
On thy state
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, Othou 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 !
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,
- In that fresh grave her true love sleeps,
Sweets to the sweet!” the prattler cries;
Again she turns away her head,
She sees her husband and her child;