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The purple heath, and golden broom,
On bogs and mountains, catch the gale ;
O'er lawns, the lily shades perfume,
The violet in the vale.

But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.

Within the garden's cultur'd round,
It shares the sweet carnation's bed,
And blooms on consecrated ground,
In honour of the dead.

The lambkin crops its crimson gem,
The wild bee murmurs on its breast;
The blue fly bends its pensile stem,
Light o'er the skylark's nest.

'Tis Flora's page. In every place,
In every season, fresh and fair,
It opens with perennial grace,
And blossoms every where.

On waste, and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise;
The rose has but a summer reign,
The daisy never dies.

THE ROSE.

Cowper.

QUEEN of fragrance, lovely rose,
Thy soft and silken leaves disclose;
The winter's past, the tempests fly,
Soft gales breathe gently through the sky;
The silver dews and genial showers
Call forth a blooming waste of flowers.
And, lo! thy beauties now unclose,
Queen of fragrance, lovely rose.

Yet, ah! how soon that bloom is flown,
How soon thy blushing charms are gone!
To-day thy crimson buds unveil,
To-morrow scatter'd in the gale;
And human bliss, as quickly goes,
And fades like thee, thou lovely rose.

Watts.

How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flow'r!
The glory of April and May !

But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour,
And they wither and die in a day.

Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast
Above all the flow'rs of the field;

When its leaves are all dead, and fine colours are lost,

Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!

So frail is the youth and the beauty of man, Though they bloom and look gay like the rose ;

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For all our fond care to preserve them is vain;
Time kills them as fast as he goes.

Let none, then, be proud of their youth or their beauty,

Since both of them wither and fade;

But gain a good name by well doing their duty;
This will scent like a rose, when they're dead.

THE MIMOSA.

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SOFTLY blow the western breezes,

Sweetly shines the evening sun;
But thee, Mimosa, nothing pleases,
Thee, what delights thy comrades, teazes,
What they enjoy, thou triest to shun.

Alike annoy'd by heat or cold,

Ever too little, or too much;
As if by rudest winds controll'd,
Thy leaves before the zephyr fold,
And tremble at the slightest touch.
Fluttering around, in playful rings,
A gilded fly, thy beauty greeted;
But from his light and filmy wings,
As he had launch'd a thousand stings,
Thy shuddering foliolis retreated.

Thy feathery leaves are like the plume,
Pluck'd from the bird of Indian skies;

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Smith.

But should'st thou, therefore, thus presume,
While others boast a fairer bloom,

All that surround thee to despise ?

The rose, whose blushing blossoms blow,
Pride of the flowery creation;

The air and light disdains not so;
And the fastidious pride, thou shew'st,
Is not reserve, but affectation.

VIOLETS.

SWEET violets, from your

Smith.

humble beds,

Among the moss beneath the thorn,

Ye rear your unassuming heads,

And brave the cold and cheerless morn
Of early March; not yet are past
The wint'ry cloud, the sullen blast,

Which, when your fragrant buds shall blow,
May lay these purple beauties low.

Ah, stay awhile, till warmer showers,
And brighter suns shall cheer the day;
Sweet violets, stay, till hardier flowers
Prepare to meet the lovely May.
Then, from your mossy shelter come,
And rival every richer bloom;
For though their colours richer shine,
Their odours do not equal thine.

And thus true merit still may dare to vie

With all that wealth bestows, or pageant heraldry.

WILD FLOWERS.

FAIR rising from her snowy couch,
Wan herald of the floral year;

The snowdrop marks the Spring's approach,
E'er yet the primroses appear,

Smith.

Or peeps the Autumn from its spotted veil,
Or odorous violets scent the cold capricious gale.

Then thickly strewn in woodland bowers,
Animonies their stars unfold;

There spring the sorrel's veined flowers;
And rich in vegetable gold;

From calix pale, the freckled cowslip born,
Receives in amber cups the fragrant dews of morn.

Lo! the green thorn her silver buds
Expands to May's enlivening beam;
Hottonia blushes on the floods;

And where the slowly trickling stream,
'Mid grass and spiry rushes stealing glides,
Her lovely fringed flowers fair Menyanthes hides.
In the lone copse or shadowy dale,
Wild-cluster'd knots of harebells blow;
And droops the lily of the vale

O'er vinca's matted leaves below.

The orchis race, with varied beauty, charm,
And imitate the bee's, or fly's aërial form.

Wound in the hedge-row's oaken boughs,
The woodbine's tassels float in air,

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