30

THE WREATH.

The Wall-flower, tried and true;
The purple Heath, so lone and fair,
(O, how unlike the world's vain glare!)
The Daisy, so contently gay,
Opening her eye-lids with the day;
The Gorse-bloom, never sad or sere,
But golden-bright,

As gems of night,

And fresh and fragrant all the year;
Each leaf, each bud, of classic lore,
Oak, Hyacinth, and Floramore;
The Cowslip, graceful in her woe,
The Hawthorn's smiles, the Poppy's glow,
This ripe with balm for present sorrow,
And that, with raptures for to-morrow.

The flowers are culled; and each lithe stem
With Woodbine band we braid-
With Woodbine, type of Life's best gem,
Of Truth that will not fade:

The Wreath is wove; do Thou, blest Power,
That brood'st o'er leaflet, fruit, and flower,
Embalm it with thy love;

O make it such as angels wear,

Pure, bright, as decked earth's first-born pair, Whilst free, in Eden's grove,

From herb and plant they brushed the dew,

And neither sin nor sorrow knew.

WILLIAM PETERS.

TO KATRINAH.

TO KATRINAH.

KATRINAH! feel you not with me
Our years are hurrying on,
And that the sparkle of life's cup
For evermore is gone?
Already hath the share of time
Marked deeply on my brow,
The furrow that too plainly tells
That youth is over now.

My locks, which once were darkly brown,

Grow grisly now and thin; Old Age comes stealthily along

The thievish mannikin !

And in my face he shakes his paw
As he is gliding by,

And snatches with his felon hand
The lustre from my eye.

The honey-moon of life is past

Our days of fun are over-
We may not tread the dance again,
The loved one and the lover!

So, soberly and quietly

We'll sit and count the hours,
Nor deem that we are roving still
Amid life's early flowers.

We plucked the blossoms long ago,
And scattered to the wind

31

32

TO KATRINAH.

Their shattered leaves all recklessly,

Nor left a bud behind!

Well let them go! if we have walked
O'er green and flowery lawns,
Oh! let us murmur not, though now
Our path is thick with thorns!

How brimming was the revel-cup
We lifted to our lip

In early time-but, oh! how brief
Our spirits' fellowship

With sunny hours and bursting flowers,
And Eden-colored things!

How quickly came the dimness o'er

Our bright imaginings!

The sunlight hath departed,

And the tempest broodeth now

Above our path! I fear it not

Katrinah! fearest thou?

Nay! let it burst !-for we have lived
Till Life's delights are gone-

And what on earth should tempt us now

To live and linger on ?

W. H. BURLEIGH.

THE MIST.

33

THE LAZY MIST.

THE lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill,
Concealing the course of the dark winding rill;
How languid the scenes late so sprightly appear,
As autumn to winter resigns the pale year.
The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown,
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown:
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse,-

How quick time is flying, how keen fate purgues!

How long I have lived-but how much lived in vain !

How little of life's scanty span may remain!

What aspects old Time in his progress has worn! What ties cruel fate in my bosom has torn!

How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd! And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how pain'd!

This life's not worth having with all it can give— For something beyond it poor man sure must live.

ROBERT BURNS.

34 BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES.

BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES.

I NEVER see a young hand hold

The starry bunch of white and gold,
But something warm and fresh will start
About the region of
my heart.
My smile expires into a sigh,
I feel a struggling in the eye,
'Twixt humid drop and sparkling ray,
Till rolling tears have won their way;
For soul and brain will travel back

Through memory's chequered mazes,
To days when I but trod life's track
For buttercups and daisies.

Tell me, ye men of wisdom rare,
Of sober speech and silver hair,
Who carry counsel, wise and sage,
With all the gravity of age;
Oh! say, do ye not like to hear
The accents ringing in your ear,

When sportive urchins laugh and shout,
Tossing their precious flowers about,
Springing with bold and gleesome bound,
Proclaiming joy that crazes,

And chorussing the magic sound
Of buttercups and daisies?