Over the valley, and over the mountain, THE ELM. (ULMUS CAMPESTRIS.) EMPURPL'D blossoms of the elm Nature hath many objects veil'd, Too deep for mortals to discern; But oft the listless tribes have fail'd To learn what she would have them learn. Look up-how stately spreads the tree ! The searching bee luxuriant cheers. Like the gay bee thy search so ply, To yield thy soul a sweet supply TO THE NIGHTINGALE. (SYLVIA LUSCINIA.) HASTE, hasten thee, nightingale, hither again, Sweet Flora hath summon'd her gay vernal train, And softly the zephyr is breathing; O come, and once more let thy soul-thrilling voice Make the woods and the hills and the valleys rejoice, Where shepherds their garlands are wreathing. O come from the land where the rose in its bloom Perennially flings on the breezes perfume; Here ants cleave the ground to regale thee. Our thickets are budding, there's depth in the shade, Which the bold vagrant schoolboy shall fear to in Then come, and no foe shall assail thee. [vade. Haste, hasten and weave in the covert thy nest, Unpilfer'd thy eggs, and thy young ones shall rest, While sweetly thy music delights them : Blithe insects to feed them shall crowd round their bed, And dew on the leaves to refresh them be shed, Till strength to the wide air excites them. Then come, and once more make the woodlands rejoice, The wanderer lists for thy soul-thrilling voice, O charm him ere yet he reposes. The Spring is no loiterer, obey while 'tis here, THE CAPTAIN OF OUR SALVATION. Against man's subtlest, mightiest foe, But ah! how dread was his campaign, Prompt at each call from place to place, He sped to save man's erring race, But when his soldiers saw the strife, Wearied, forsaken, still he strove, Dying he conquer'd; yet at last No human honours grac'd his bier; No trumpet wail'd its mournful blast, No muffl'd drum made music drear. But when he dy'd the rocks were rent, And horror every bosom swell'd. E'en Death, fell Death! could not detain He burst the ineffectual chain, THE PRIMROSE. (PRIMULA VULGARIS.) TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. Again I woo the fresh'ning gale, That roves o'er yonder wood-crown'd hills; Again its balmy breath inhale, Which life's faint springs with vigour fills. The modest flower again I seek, Pale primrose! in thee still reside A winning charm, a magic pow'r, That call back life's delicious tide, When pleasure wing'd each fleeting hour. Yes, often from the sportive throng And when thy earliest bloom I spied, But where is He who wont to hail, And search with me the wood nymph Health? 'Twas but when last the primrose bloom Adorn'd these banks, that here he stray'd; The worm-pierc'd bud foretold his doom, The blighted leaf his end display'd. |