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Over the valley, and over the mountain,
Over the ocean, lake, and fountain;
There we gambol, and there we glow,
While all is wrapt in gloom below.

THE ELM.

(ULMUS CAMPESTRIS.)

EMPURPL'D blossoms of the elm
Wave lightly in the passing breeze,
The early charm of Flora's realm,
Secure th' observant eye to please.

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 !
Where yet no verdant leaf appears;
But myriad tassels waving free

The searching bee luxuriant cheers.

Like the gay bee thy search so ply,
And numerous sources shall unfold,

To yield thy soul a sweet supply
Of treasures richer far than gold.

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,
Just warble a season, thy brood timely rear,
Then away to thine own land of roses.

THE CAPTAIN OF OUR SALVATION.
There was a warrior once who fought

Against man's subtlest, mightiest foe,
And more than valiant deeds he wrought
T'effect th' enslaver's overthrow.

But ah! how dread was his campaign,
Forc'd in the wilderness to stray,
Lone, hungry, stung with grief and pain,
And thus sustain the arduous fray.

Prompt at each call from place to place,
'Mid sin's dark shade and sorrow's flow,

He sped to save man's erring race,
And bear for him the vengeful blow.

But when his soldiers saw the strife,
When imminent the danger grew,
Though 'twas for them he pledg'd his life,
Like dastards from the field they flew.

Wearied, forsaken, still he strove,
And gain'd the glorious victory;
Yet such atchievements few could move,
To hail his triumph 'neath the sky.

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,
The sun his radiant beams withheld,
All nature shudder'd at th' event,

And horror every bosom swell'd.

E'en Death, fell Death! could not detain
Him, who for man his life had given,

He burst the ineffectual chain,
And soar'd his advocate to heaven.

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,
Whose early buds the banks begem,
Fair, yet retir'd, carest, yet meek,
The pride of young Spring's diadem.

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
Of noisy elves, by mischief led,
I've rov'd thy lonely haunts among,
To pluck thee from thy lowly bed.

And when thy earliest bloom I spied,
And bore it from the 'tangl'd brake,
Th' atchievement every joy outvied
Contending wights in victory take.

But where is He who wont to hail,
Thy pale fresh buds, his choicest wealth,
And woo th' invigorating gale,

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.

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