FIELD FLOWERS.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.

YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true, Yet, wildings of nature, I dote upon you,

For ye waft me to summers of old,

When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight,
And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd 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 broken blades 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 sweeten'd the calm.

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune
Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June;
Of old ruinous castles ye tell:

I thought it delightful your beauties to find
When the magic of nature first breathed on my mind,
And your blossoms were part of her spell.

Even now what affections the violet awakes;
What loved little islands, twice seen in the lakes,
Can the wild water-lily restore.

What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks;
What pictures of pebbles and minnowy brooks,
In the vetches that tangle the shore.

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,
With the visions of youth to revisit my age,
And I wish you to grow on my tomb.

SONG.

BY THE REV. THOMAS DALE.

O, BREATHE no more that simple air,— Though soft and sweet thy wild notes swell, To me the only tale they tell

Is cold despair!—

I heard it once from lips as fair,
I heard it in as sweet a tone,—
Now I am left on earth alone,

How have those well-known sounds renew'd
The dreams of earlier, happier hours,
When life-a desert now-was strew'd
With fairy flowers!—

Then all was bright, and fond, and fair,-
Now flowers are faded, joys are fled,
And heart and hope are with the dead,
For she is

where?

Can I then love the air she loved?
Can I then hear the melting strain
Which brings her to my soul again,
Calm and unmoved?—

And thou to blame my tears forbear;
For while I list, sweet maid! to thee,!
Remembrance whispers, "such was she,”-
And she is where ?

FLODDEN FIELD.

BY DELTA.

'TWAS on a sultry summer noon,
The sky was blue, the breeze was still,
And Nature with the robes of June

Had clothed the slopes of Flodden Hill,— As rode we slowly o'er the plain,

'Mid wayside flowers and sprouting grain; The leaves on every bough seem'd sleeping, And wild bees murmur'd in their mirth, So pleasantly, it seem'd as earth

A jubilee was keeping!

And canst thou be, unto my soul

I said, that dread Northumbrian field,
Where war's terrific thunder roll
Above two banded kingdoms peal'd?
From out the forest of his spears
Ardent imagination hears

The crash of Surrey's onward charging;
While curtel-axe and broad-sword gleam
Opposed, a bright, wide, coming stream,
Like Solway's tide enlarging.

Hark to the turmoil and the shout,
The war-cry, and the cannon's boom!
Behold the struggle and the rout,

The broken lance and draggled plume! Borne to the earth, with deadly force, Comes down the horseman and his horse; Round boils the battle like an ocean, While stripling blithe and veteran stern Pour forth their lifeblood on the fern, Amid its fierce commotion!

Mown down like swathes of summer flowers,
Yes! on the cold earth there they lie,
The lords of Scotland's banner'd towers,
The chosen of her chivalry!
Commingled with the vulgar dead,
Perhaps lies many a mitred head;
And thou, the vanguard onwards leading,
Who left the sceptre for the sword,
For battle-field the festal board,
Liest low amid the bleeding!

Yes! here thy life-star knew decline,

Though hope, that strove to be deceived, Shaped thy lone course to Palestine,

And what it wish'd full oft believed:An unhewn pillar on the plain

Marks out the spot where thou wast slain; There pondering as I stood, and gazing On its gray top, the linnet sang,

And, o'er the slopes where conflict rang, The quiet sheep were grazing.

And were the nameless dead unsung,
The patriot and the peasant train,
Who like a phalanx round thee clung,
To find but death on Flodden Plain?
No! many a mother's melting lay
Mourn'd o'er the bright flowers wede away;
And many a maid, with tears of sorrow,

Whose locks no more were seen to wave, Wept for the beauteous and the brave, Who came not on the morrow!

LYRE.

H

TO THE IVY.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

OH! how could fancy crown with thee
In ancient days, the god of wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be
Companion of the vine?

Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound
Of revelry hath long been o'er;

Where song's full notes once peal'd around,
But now are heard no more!

The Roman, on his battle-plains,
Where kings before his eagles bent,
Entwined thee with exulting strains,
Around the victor's tent;

Yet, there, though fresh in glossy green,
Triumphally thy boughs might wave,
Better thou lovest the silent scene,
Around the Victor's grave.

Where sleep the sons of ages flown,
The bards and heroes of the past;-
Where through the halls of glory gone
Murmurs the wintry blast;
Where years are hastening to efface
Each record of the grand and fair ;-
Thou, in thy solitary grace,

Wreath of the tomb! art there.

Thou o'er the shrines of fallen gods,

On classic plains dost mantling spread, And veil the desolate abodes

And cities of the dead;

Deserted palaces of kings,

Arches of triumph, long o'erthrown,—
And all once-glorious earthly things,
At length are thine alone.