And in a coffin short and wide Their mother, as a lily pale, And bending o'er them told her tale, But oft she cried, amidst her pain, My babes and I shall meet again. Anon. THE WALL-FLOWER. Why loves my flower, (the sweetest flower Thrown rudely o'er the ruined tower ' Why, when the mead, the spicy vale, The grove, and genial garden call, Will she her fragrant soul exhale, Unheeded on the lonely wall? For never sure was beauty born To lay in death's deserted shade: Come, lovely flower, my banks adorn, My banks for love and beauty made." Thus pity waked the tender thought, I sought-but sudden on my ear • From thee be far the ungentle deed, The honours of the dead to spoil; Or take the sole remaining meed, The flower that crowns their former toil! Nor deem that flower the garden's foe, Or fond to grace the barren shade, 'Tis nature tells her to bestow Her honours on the lonely dead!— For this obedient zephyrs bear Her light seed round yon turrets mold, And undispersed by tempests there, They rise in vegetable gold. Nor shall thy wonder wake to see, Oft have they been, and oft shall be Truth's, honour's, valour's, beauty's grave. When longs to fall that rifted spire, The poet's thought, the warrior's fire, When that too shakes the trembling ground, Borne down by some tempestuous sky, And many a slumbering cottage round Startles how still their hearts will lie. Of them who, wrapped in earth so cold, 'Hast thou not seen some lover pale, When evening brought the pensive hour, Step slowly o'er the shadowy vale, And stop to pluck the fragrant flower? Those flowers he surely means to strew Tho' there, as fond remembrance grew, Has not for thee the fragrant thorn Been taught its first rose to resign, With vain, though pious fondness borne, To deck thy Nancy's honoured shrine ? ''Tis nature pleading in the breast, Fair memory of her works to find; And when to fall she yields the rest, She claims the monumental mind. Why else the o'ergrown paths of time Would thus the lettered sage explore, With pain these crumbling ruins climb, And on the doubtful sculpture pore ? 6 Why seeks he with unwearied toil, Thro' death's dim walks to urge his Reclaim his long asserted spoil, And lead oblivion into day? way, 'Tis nature prompts, by toil or fear Unmoved, to range thro' death's domain ; The tender parent loves to hear Her children's story told again.' Langhorne. THE TEAR. On beds of snow the moon-beam slept, A warm tear gushed; the wintry air All night it lay an ice-drop there, At morn it glittered in the ray. |