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SPARE MY FLOWER.

H spare my flower, my gentle flower,
The slender creature of a day!
Let it bloom out its little hour,
And pass away.

So soon its fleeting charms must lie
Decay'd, unnotic'd, overthrown;
Oh hasten not its destiny,

Too like thy own.

The breeze will roam this way to-morrow,
And sigh to find its playmate gone;
The bee will come its sweets to borrow,
And meet with none.

Oh spare! and let it still outspread
Its beauties to the passing eye,
And look up from its lowly bed,
Upon the sky.

133

Spare my Flower.

Oh spare my flower! thou know'st not what

Thy undiscerning hand would tear : A thousand charms, thou notest not, Lie treasured there.

Not Solomon, in all his state,

Was clad like nature's simplest child; Nor could the world combined create One flow'ret wild.

Spare, then, this humble monument
Of an Almighty's power and skill!
And let it at His shrine present

Its homage still.

He made it who made nought in vain ;
He watches it who watches thee;
And He can best its date ordain,

Who bade it be.

Oh spare my flower! for it is frail—

A timid, weak, imploring thing— And let it still upon the gale

Its moral fling.

That moral thy reward shall be:

Catch the suggestion, and apply―

"Go live like me," it cries; "like me,

Soon, soon to die."

LYTE.

SONG.

JOW the lusty spring is seen;
Golden yellow, gaudy blue,
Daintily invite the view.
Everywhere, on every green,
Roses blushing as they blow,
And enticing men to pull;
Lilies whiter than the snow,
Woodbines of sweet honey full :
All love's emblems, and all cry,
Ladies, if not plucked, we die.”

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Yet, the lusty spring hath stayed;
Blushing red, and purest white,
Daintily to love invite

Every woman, every maid,
Cherries kissing as they grow,
And inviting men to taste;
Apples ever ripe below,
Winding gently to the waist :

All love's emblems, and all cry,
"Ladies, if not plucked, we die.”

BEAUMONT.

THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.

N eastern lands they talk in flowers,

And they tell in a garland their loves and

cares;

Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers, On its leaves a mystic language bears.

The rose is a sign of joy and love,

Young blushing love in its earliest dawn; And the mildness that suits the gentle dove, From the myrtle's snowy flower is drawn.

Innocence shines in the lily's bell,

Pure as the heart in its native heaven;
Fame's bright star and Glory's swell,
By the glossy leaf of the bay are given.

The silent, soft, and humble heart

In the violet's hidden sweetness breathes; And the tender soul that cannot part,

A twine of evergreen fondly wreathes.

The cypress that daily shades the grave,
Is sorrow that mourns her bitter lot,
And faith that a thousand ills can brave
Speaks in thy blue leaves-forget-me-not.

Then gather a wreath from the garden bowers, And tell the wish of thy heart in flowers.

PERCIVAL.

THE ROSARY.

ONE asked me where the roses grew,

I bad him not go seek ;

But forthwith bade my Julia show

A bud in either cheek.

Some asked me where the rubies grow!

And nothing I did say,

But with my finger pointed to

The lips of Julia.

Some asked how pearls did grow, and where;

Then spoke I to my girl

To part her lips and shew them there,

The quarrelets of pearl.

HERRICK.

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