Though woodbines flaunt, and roses glow Thou need'st not be ashamed to show Thy tender blossoms are ! How rich thy branchy stem! How soft thy voice, when woods are still, A sweet air lifts the little bough, But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring, The fresh green days of life's fair spring, And boyhood's blossomy hour. Scorn'd bramble of the brake! once more To gad with thee the woodlands o'er, In freedom and in joy. THE GRASSHOPPER. Happy insect! what can be Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, ELLIOTT. RURAL VERSES. Thou dost innocently joy Thee country hinds with gladness hear, Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire; Phoebus is himself thy sire. To thee of all things upon earth, Life is no longer than thy mirth. Dost neither age nor winter know: But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung Thy fill, the flowery leaves among, (Voluptuous, and wise withal, Epicurean animal!) Sated with thy summer feast, Thou retir'st to endless rest. COWLEY. THE HAREBELL. It springeth on the heath Like to some elfin dweller of the wild; Stemmed with the gossamer, Soft as the blue eyes of a poet's child. The very flower to take Into the heart and make The cherished memory of all pleasant places; And straight is pictured well We vision wild sea-rocks, The forest's sylvan well, Where the poor wounded hart comes down to drink. We vision moors far-spread, Where blooms the heather red, And hunters with their dogs lie down at noon; On mountain-sides their sheep, Cheating the time with flowers and fancies boon. 365 Old slopes of pasture-ground; Old fosse, and moat, and mound, Where mailed warrior and crusader came; Old walls of crumbling stone, Where trails the snap-dragon; Rise at the speaking of the harebell's name. We see the sere turf brown, Scarce raising from the stem its thick-set flowers; And the strong ivy-growth o'er crumbling towers. Light harebell, there thou art, Of the old splendour of the days gone by, Pant through the distant trees, That on the hill-top grow broad-branch'd and high. Oh, when I look on thee, In thy fair symmetry, And look on other flowers as fair beside, My sense is gratitude That God has been thus good, To scatter flowers, like common blessings wide. MARY HOWITT. The poetry of earth is never dead; When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead KEATS. Here rustic taste at leisure trimly weaves Peep through the diamond panes their gilded heads. CLARE. |