H Loves of The Plants. OW snowdrops cold and blue-eyed harebells blend Their tender tears, as o'er the streams they bend, The lovesick violet and the primrose pale Bow their sweet heads and whisper to the gale; With secret sighs the virgin lily droops, And jealous cowslips hang their tawny cups. How the young rose, in beauty's damask pride, Drinks the warm blushes of his bashful bride; With honeyed lips enamored woodbines meet, Clasp with fond arms, and mix their kisses sweet! Stay thy softening murmuring waters, gentle rill; -Erasmus Darwin. The Ivy Green. H! a dainty plant is the ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old! On right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim; And the mouldering dust that years have made, Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. Fast he stealeth on though he wears no wings And the leaves he gently waves, Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, For the stateliest building man can raise Creeping on where time has been, A The Brave Old Oak. SONG to the oak, the brave old oak, Who hath ruled in the greenwood long; Here's health and renown to his broad green crown, And his fifty arms so strong! There's fear in his frown till the sun goes down, And the fire in the West fades out; And he showeth his might on a wild midnight, In the days of old, when the spring with cold, Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet, To gather the dew of May. And on that day to the rebeck gay They frollicked with lovesome swains; They are gone, they are dead, in the churchyard laid, But the tree it still remains. He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes When the squire's wide hall and the cottage small And a ruthless king is he; But he never shall send our ancient friend -Henry Fothergill Chorley. H The Voice of the Grass. ERE I come creeping, creeping everywhere; By the dusty roadside, On the sunny hillside, I come creeping, creeping everywhere. Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere; I come creeping, creeping everywhere. Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; My pleasant face you'll meet, Silently creeping, creeping everywhere: Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere You cannot see me coming, Nor hear my low sweet humming; For in the starry night, And the glad morning light, I come quietly creeping everywhere. Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; In summer's pleasant hours; And the merry bird not sad, To see me creeping, creeping everywhere. And deck your silent homeCreeping, silently creeping everywhere. Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; My humble song of praise Most joyfully I raise To Him at whose command I beautify the land, Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. -Sarah Roberts. A The Maize. "That precious seed into the furrow cast Earliest in springtime, crowns the harvest last.” FAR in the forest the rude cabins rise, And send up their pillars of smoke, And the tops of their columns are lost in the skies, O'er the heads of the cloud-kissing oak; Near the skirt of the grove, where the sturdy arm swings The axe till the old giant sways, And echo repeats every blow as it rings, Shoots the green and the glorious maize! There buds of the buckeye in spring are the first, When through the dark soil the bright steel of the plow Turns the mold from its unbroken bed, The plowman is cheered by the finch on the bough, It strikes its green blades at the zephyrs at noon, And at night at the swift-flying fays, Who ride through the darkness the beams of the moon, Through the spears and the flags of the maize! When the summer is fierce still its banners are green, Each warrior's long beard groweth red, His emerald-bright sword is sharp-pointed and keen And golden his tassel-plumed head. As a host of armed knights set a monarch at naught, That defy the day-god to his gaze, And, revived every morn from the battle that's fought, Fresh stand the green ranks of the maize! But brown comes the autumn, and sear grows the corp, And the woods like a rainbow are dressed, A song for the plant of my own native West, By plenty still crowned, and by peace ever blest, Thou bright, ever beautiful maize! -Phabe Cary. THI The Primeval Forest. HIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and prophetic, Bowed like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it Leaped like the roe, when he herrs in the woodland the voice of the huntsman?-Henry W. Longfellow. |