The noise of ocean faintly met the ear,

That seemed, as sunk to rest the noontide blast,
But dying sounds of passion that were past;
Or closing anthems, when far off, expire
The lessening echoes of the distant choir.

BOWLES.

THE BUTTERFLY.

EAUTIFUL creature! I have been
Months uncounted watching thee,
Now flitting round the foliage green
Of yonder dark, embowering tree;
And now again in frolic glee,

Hovering around those opening flowers,
Happy as nature's child should be,

Born to enjoy her loveliest bowers.

And I have gazed upon thy flight,
Till feelings I can scarce define,
Awakened by so fair a sight,
With desultory thoughts combine-
Not to induce me to repine,

Or envy thee thy happiness;

But from a lot so bright as thine,
To borrow musings born to bless.

Then thou, delightful creature, who
Wert yesterday a sightless worm,
Becom❜st a symbol fair and true,

Of hopes that own no mortal term;
In thy proud change we see the germ
Of man's sublimer destiny,

While holiest oracles confirm

The type of immortality!

A change more glorious far than thine,
Even I, thy fellow-worm, may know,
When this exhausted frame of mine
Down to its kindred dust shall go;
When the anxiety and woe

Of being's embryo state shall seem
Like phantoms flitting to and fro

In some confused and feverish dream.

For thee, who flittest gaily now,
With all thy nature asks supplied,
A few brief summer days and thou
No more amid these haunts shalt glide,
As hope's fair herald-in thy pride
The sylph-like genius of the scene,
But, sunk in dark oblivion's tide,

Shalt be-as thou hadst never been!

When man's immortal part, when time
Shall set the chainless spirit free,
May seek a brighter, happier clime
Than fancy e'er could feign for thee;
Though bright her fairy bowers may be,

Yet brief as bright her beauties fade,

And sad experience mourns to see

Each gourd-hope trusted in decayed.

Sport on, then, lovely summer fly,
With whom began my votive strain :-

Yet purer joys their hopes supply,
Who, by faith's alchemy, obtain
Comfort in sorrow, bliss in pain,

Freedom in bondage, light in gloom,
Through earthly losses heavenly gain,
And life immortal through the tomb.

BARTON

BRING FLOWERS.

RING flowers, young flowers, for the festal board,
To wreathe the cup ere the wine is poured;
Bring flowers!-they are springing in wood and
vale,

Their breath floats out in the southern gale,
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose,
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows.

Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path-
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath !
He comes with the spoils of nations back,
The vine lies crushed in his chariot's track,
The turf looks red where he won the day-
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way!

Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell,
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell;
Of the free blue streams and the glowing sky,
And the bright world shut from his languid eye!
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours,
And a dream of his youth-bring him flowers, wild flowers!

Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!
They were born to blush in her shining hair;
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth,
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth,
Her place is now by another's side-

Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride

Bring flowers, pale flowers, on her bier to shed
A crown for the brow of the early dead;
For this through its leaves hath the white rose burst;
For this in the woods was the violet nursed:

Though they smile in vain for what once was ours;

They are Love's last gift-bring ye flowers, pale flowers!

Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer,
They are Nature's offering, their place is there!
They speak of hope to the fainting heart,
With a voice of promise they come and part,
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours,

They break forth in glory-bring flowers, bright flowers!

MRS. HEMANS.

THE ROSE.

S the Rose of the valley when dripping with dew, Is the sweetest in odour, and brightest in hue; So the glance of dear woman most lovely appears When it beams from her eloquent eye through her tears!

ANONYMOUS.

THE ROSE.

HE Rose is fairest when 'tis budding new,

And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears; The rose is sweetest washed with morning dew,

And love is loveliest when embalmed in tears.

SCOTT.

THE ROSE.

HE Rose, the sweetly-blooming rose,

Ere from the tree 'tis torn,

Is like the charms which beauty shows,

In life's exulting morn.

But, oh! how soon its sweets are gone,

How soon it withering lies!

So, when the eve of life comes on,
Sweet beauty fades and dies.

Then since the fairest form that's made

Soon withering we shall find,

Let us possess what ne'er will fade

The beauties of the mind.

C. J. FOX.

THE ROSE.

HE Rose had been washed, just washed in a shower,
Which Mary to Anna conveyed;

The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower,

And weighed down its beautiful head.

The cup was all filled, and the leaves were all wet,
And it seemed, to a fanciful view,

To weep for the buds it had left with regret,
On the flourishing bush where it grew.

I hastily seized it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned,
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
I snapped it-it fell to the ground.

And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to sorrow resigned.

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,

Might have bloomed with its owner a while; And the tear that is wiped with a little address, May be followed, perhaps, by a smile.

COWPER.