FIELD FLOWERS. YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true, For ye waft me to summers of old, When the earth teemed around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold. I love you for lulling me back into dreams. Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams, . And of birchen glades breathing their balm, While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note Made music that sweetened the calm. Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, Even now what affections the violet awakes; What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks, Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear Had scathed my existence's bloom; Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, . SONG. TO THE EVENING STAR. STAR that bringest home the bee, Come to the luxuriant skies, Whilst the landscape's odours rise, Star of love's soft interviews, By absence from the heart. STANZAS TO PAINTING. O THOU by whose expressive art In whose creative hand the hues I bless thee, Promethean Muse! Possessing more than vocal power, Does Hope her high possession meet? But oh! thou pulse of pleasure dear, Then for a beam of joy to light In memory's sad and wakeful eye! Or banish from the noon of night Her dreams of deeper agony. Shall Song its witching cadence roll? What visions rise! to charm, to melt! But thou, serenely silent art! By heaven and love wast taught to lend A milder solace to the heart, The sacred image of a friend. All is not lost! if; yet possest, To me that sweet memorial shine :- Or, gazing through luxurious tears, She looks! she lives! this tranced hour, Yes, Genius, yes! thy mimic aid Smiles in the sainted hues of heaven. No spectre forms of pleasure fled, Thy softening, sweetening, tints restore ; For thou canst give us back the dead, E'en in the loveliest looks they wore. Then blest be Nature's guardian Muse, Whose hand her perished grace redeems! Whose tablet of a thousand hues The mirror of creation seems. From Love began thy high descent; And call thee brightest of the Nine! THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE. NEVER wedding, ever wooing, Still a love-lorn heart pursuing, Read you not the wrong you're doing In my cheek's pale hue? All my life with sorrow strewing, Wed, or cease to woo. |