IT is not that sweet herbs and flow'rs alone In their great mother's iced bosom deep For months, or that the birds, more joyous grown, BARRY CORNWALL. ERE'S a health to thee, Mary, Here's a health to thee; The drinkers are gone, and I am alone, And I am alone, To think of home and thee, Mary. There are some who may shine o'er thee, Mary, And many as frank and free, And a few as fair, But the summer air Is not more sweet to me, Mary. I have thought of thy last low sigh, Mary, And I've called on thy name Song. Be thou but true to me, Mary, When my task is done, Be sure that I'm ever with thee, Mary. 67 BARRY CORNWALL. THE BIRTH OF THE ANEMONE. By this the boy that by her side lay killed, A purple flower sprung up, chequer'd with white : Resembling well his pale cheeks, and the blood Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood. She bows her head, the new sprung flower to smell, Comparing it to her Adonis' breath; And says, within her bosom it shall dwell, Since he himself is reft from her by death: She crops the stalk. and in the breach appears Green dropping sap, which she compares to tears. SHAKSPEARE'S "Venus and Adonis." |