In the rush of steeds and men, His right hand will shield thee then. But when night Take thy banner! Spare him-he our love hath shared- Take thy banner!—and if e'er And the warrior took that banner proud, THE NIGHTINGALE FLOWER. FAIR flower of silent night! Unto thy bard an emblem thou shouldst be: His fount of song, in hours of garish light, Is closed like thee. But, with the vesper hour, Silence and solitude its depths unseal : Its hidden springs, like thy unfolding flower, Their life reveal. Were it not sweeter still To give imagination holier scope, And deem that thus the future may fulfill That, as thy lovely bloom Sheds round its perfume at the close of day, With beauty sweeter from surrounding gloom, A star-like ray : So in life's last decline, When the grave's shadows are around me cast, My spirit's hopes may like thy blossoms shine Bright at the last; And, as the grateful scent Of thy meek flower, the memory of my name! Oh! who could wish for prouder monument, Or purer fame? The darkness of the grave Would wear no gloom appalling to the sight, Might Hope's fair blossom, like thy flowret, brave Death's wintry night. Knowing the dawn drew nigh Of an eternal, though a sunless day, Whose glorious flowers must bloom immortally, Nor fear decay! A LAST REMEMBRANCE. BY W. KENNEDY. I NEVER more shall see thee, In musings of the midnight hour, I shall never hear thy welcoming, I have thee full before me, But where has fled the matchless one Though parted, maid, long parted, One star hath ruled the fate of both, I may not call thee bride, Accept a token of the bondBy which we are allied. I've found for thee an emblem A leafless branch, that lately crown'd Torn from the pleasant stem it loved, For pledges of affection I'll give thee faded flowers; And thou shalt send me wither'd leaves Whene'er a passing funeral The midnight wind is grieving; Doth make it meet to bear to thee Farewell, pale child of hopelessness ! TO MAY. BY LORD THURLOW. MAY, queen of blossoms, Shall we charm the hours? Thou hast no need of us, Thou hast thy mighty herds, See, the lark quivers! When with the jacinth Coy fountains are tress'd; And for the mournful bird Green woods are dress'd, That did for Tereus pine; Then shall our songs be thine, To whom our hearts incline: MAY, be thou bless'd! |