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rill;

THE IVY GREEN.

Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and

good of ours. O, A DAINTY plant is the ivy green,

The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold That creepeth o'er ruins old !

November rain Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,

Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely In his cell so lone and cold.

ones again. The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim ;

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long And the moldering dust that years have made

ago, Is a merry meal for him.

And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the Creeping where no life is seen,

summer glow; A rare old plant is the ivy green.

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in

the wood, Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And the yellow sunflower by the brook in auAnd a stanch old heart has he !

tumn beauty stood, How closely he twineth, how tight he clings Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as To his friend, the huge oak-tree !

falls the plague on men, And slyly he traileth along the ground,

And the brightness of their smile was gone from And his leaves he gently waves,

upland, glade, and glen. Anil he joyously twines and hugs around The rich mold of dead men's graves.

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still Creeping where no life is seen,

such days will come, A rare old plant is the ivy green. To call the squirrel and the bee from out their

winter home; Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though And nations have scattered been ;

all the trees are still, But the stout old ivy shall never fade

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days

The south-wind searches for the flowers whose Shall fatten upon the past ;

fragrance late he bore, For the stateliest building man can raise And sighs to find them in the wood and by the Is the ivy's food at last.

stream no more.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green. And then I think of one who in her youthful
CHARLES DICKENS.

beauty died,
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded

by my side. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the

forests cast the leaf, Tue melancholy days are come, the saddest of And we wept that one so lovely should have a

life so brief; Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young brown and sear.

friend of ours, Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the leaves lie dead ;

flowers.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rab

bit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,

THE USE OF FLOWERS. And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.

Gop might have bade the earth bring forth

Enough for great and small, Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that The oak-tree and the cedar-tree, lately sprang and stood

Without a flower at all. In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous We might have had enough, enough sisterhood ?

For every want of ours, Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race For luxury, medicine, and toil, of flowers

And yet have had no flowers.

the year,

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"When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill."

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The sunlight fills the trembling air,

And balmy days their guerdons bring; The Earth again is young and fair,

And amorous with musky Spring.

The golden nurslings of the May

In splendor strew the spangled green, And hues of tender beauty play,

Entangled where the willows lean.

Mark how the rippled currents flow;

What lusters on the meadows lie ! And hark! the songsters come and go,

And trill between the earth and sky.

Thechangeful play of signals gay; when the gloom

is speckled o'er With kraal fires ; when the Caffre wends home

through the lone karroo ; When the boshbok in the thicket sleeps, and by

the stream the gnu; Then bend your gaze across the waste, what

see ye? The giraffe, Majestic, stalks towards the lagoon, the turbid

lymph to quaff ; With outstretched neck and tongue adust, he

kneels him down to cool His hot thirst with a welcome draught from the

foul and brackish pool. A rustling sound, a roar, a bound, - the lion sits

astride Upon his giant courser's back. Did ever king so

ride ? Had ever king a steed so rare, caparisons of state To match the dappled skin whereon that rider sits

elate ?

Who told us that the years had fled,

Or borne afar our blissful youth ? Such joys are all about us spread ;

We know the whisper was not truth.

The birds that break from grass and grove

Sing every carol that they sung When first our veins were rich with love,

And May her mantle round us flung.

() fresh-lit dawn ! immortal life!

O Earth's betrothal, sweet and true, With whose delights our souls are rife,

And aye their vernal vows renew!

In the muscles of the neck his teeth are plunged

with ravenous greed ; His tawny mane is tossing round the withers of

the steed. Up leaping with a hollow yell of anguish and sur

prise, Away, away, in wild dismay, the camelopard

flies.

Then, darling, walk with me this morn ;

Let your brown tresses drink its sheen ; These violets, within them worn,

Of floral fays shall make you queen.

His feet have wings ; seo how he springs across

the moonlit plain ! As from theirsockets they would burst, his glaring

eyeballs strain ;

What though there comes a time of pain

When autumn wins forbode decay ?

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