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Not unaccepted such pure omen came ;
That gentle voice the present God revealed, And back the lonian chief returned in shame,
Checked by the virtue of that simple shield.
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. — Bryant.
The melancholy days have come, the saddest of the
year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows
brown and sear. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered
leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's
tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the
shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all
the gloomy day.
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that
lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sister.
hood ? Alas! they all are in their graves ; the gentle race of
flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good
of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold No
vember rain Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.
The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the sum
mer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the
wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn
beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls
the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from
upland, glade, and glen.
And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still
such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter
home, When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all
the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fra
grance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream
no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty
died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by
my side : In the cold, moist earth we laid her, when the forest
cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so
brief; Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend
of ours, So gentle, and so beautiful, should perish with the
THE CORAL GROVE.- Percival.
Deep in the wave is a coral grove,
A HAPPY LIFE.
A HAPPY LIFE. — Sir Henry Wotton.
How happy is he born and taught,
That serveth not another's will; Whose armor is his honest thought, . And simple truth his utmost skill;
Whose passions not his masters are ;
Whose soul is still prepared for death, Untied unto the world by care
Of public fame, or private breath;
Who envies none, that chance doth raise,
Nor vice; hath ever understood
Nor rules of state, but rules of good;
Who hath his life from rumors freed;
Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great;
Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend; And entertains the harmless day
With a well chosen book or friend.
This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; Lord of himself, though not of lands,
And having nothing, yet hath all.
KNOWLEDGE and wisdom, far from being one,
GOOD TEMPER. - More.
Since trifles make the sum of human things
VIRTUE.- Old English Poetry.
The sturdy rock, for all his strength,
By raging seas is rent in twain ;
With little drops of drizzling rain ;