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LINES UPON A BUTTERFLY,
SEEN ON THE SUMMIT OF MONT BLANC.
(REV. WILLIAM LIDDIARD.]
Hall to thee! thou little fly,
Thee thus so high lave been assigned
Earth scorning thus with rapid flight,
They bear thee from the realms of night,
Above man's path--this mountain white. While toil-worn man, with faltering feet,
Ascends the mount, leaves those beneath, The purer air thy winglets beat; And while he heaves his hurried breath,
Like that which marks the hour of death, Thou gambol'st here aloft and fleet; And as thou fliest, thou seem'st to say, This is to higher realms the way; Leave the cold earth, and come away!
How soft is the sound of the river,
Stealing down through the green piny dale,
The cooing dove plains out its tale;
The fires in the western serene;
Festoon’d with their branches of green;
Present cares in the glow of the past !
And sunshine too lovely to last.
Over what we have loved or have lost?
Our visions accomplished or crost, "Tis ours to be calm and resigned, Faith's star beaming clear on the night of the mind.
When morning awoke on the ocean,
Dim tempests were lowering around;
The sun his asylum hath found!
Have past and have perished, the sky
Gleam bright in eternity's eye;
'THE CHILD AND FLOWERS.
(MRS. HEMANS.) Hast thou been in the woods with the honey-bee? Hast thou been with the lamb in the pastures free? With the hare through the copses and dingles wild ? With the butterfly over the heath, fair child? Yes; the light form of thy hounding feet Hath not startled the wren from her mossy seat; Yet hast thou ranged the green forest dells, And brought back a treasure of buds and bells. Thou know'st not the sweetness, by antique song, Breathed o'er the names of that flowery throng; The woodbine, the primrose, the violets dim, The lily that gleams by the fountain's brim : These are old words, tbat have made each grove A dreary haunt for romance and love; Each sunny bank, where faint odours lie, A place for the gushings of poesy.
Thou know'st not the light where with fairy lore
OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF A LADY
(DR. Beattie.] STILL shall unthinking man substantial deem The forms that only fleet thro' life's deceitful dream? On clouds, where Fancy's beam ainusive plays, Shall heedless Hope his towering fabric raise ? Till at Death's touch th' ideal glories fly, And real scenes rush dismal on the eye; And, from the bowers of beauty torn, The startled soul awakes to think-and mourn. O ye, whose hours in jocund train advance, Whose spirits to the song of gladness dance ; Who flowery scenes in endless view survey, Glittering in beams of visionary day! O! yet while Fate delays th' impending woe, Be rous’d to thought, anticipate the blow; Lest like the lightning's glance, the sudden ill Flash to confound, and penetrate to kill : Lest, thus encompass'd with funereal gloom, Like me ye bend o'er some untimely tomb, Pour your wild ravings in Night's frighted ear, And half pronounce Heav'n's sacred doom severe. Wise ! beauteous! good !- every grace combin'd, That charms the eye, that captivates the mind; Fair as the flow'ret opening on the morn, Whose leaves bright drops of liquid pearl adorn! Sweet, as the downy-pinion'd gale, that roves To gather fragrance in Arabian groves ! Mild, as the strains, that, at the close of day Warbling remote, along the vales decay!