Slike strani
PDF
ePub
[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]

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;
Hush, whispering winds; ye rustling leaves, be still;
Rest, silver butterflies, your quivering wings;
Alight, ye beetles, from your airy rings;
Ye painted moths, your gold-eyed plumage furl,
Bow your wide horns, your spiral trunks uncurl;
Glitter, ye glow-worms on your mossy beds;
Descend, ye spiders, on your lengthened threads;
Side here, ye horned snails, with varnished shells;
Ye bee-nymphs, listen in your waxen cells!

-Erasmus Darwin.

[ocr errors]

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 a staunch old heart has he;
How closely he twineth, how close he clings,
To his friend the huge oak tree!
And slily he traileth along the ground,

And the leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mould of dead men's graves.
Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;
But the stout old ivy shall never fade
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days
Shall fatten on the past:

For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the ivy's food at last.

Creeping on where time has been,
A rare old plant is the ivy green!
-Charles Dickens.

[blocks in formation]

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,
When the storms through his branches shout.
Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak,
Who stands in his pride alone;
And still flourish he, a hale green tree,
When a hundred years are gone!

In the days of old, when the spring with cold,
Had brightened his branches gray,

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
Were a merry sound to hear,

When the squire's wide hall and the cottage small
Were filled with good English cheer.
Now gold hath the sway we all obey,

And a ruthless king is he;

But he never shall send our ancient friend
To be tossed on the stormy sea.

-Henry Fothergill Chorley.

H

The Voice of the Grass.

ERE I come creeping, creeping everywhere;

By the dusty roadside,

On the sunny hillside,
Close by the noisy brook,
In every shady nook,

I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere;
All round the open door,
Where sit the aged poor;
Here where the children play,
In the bright and merry May,

I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
In the noisy city street,

My pleasant face you'll meet,
Cheering the sick at heart
Toiling his busy part-

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;
More welcome than the flowers

In summer's pleasant hours;
The gentle cow is glad,

And the merry bird not sad,

To see me creeping, creeping everywhere.
Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
When you're numbered with the dead
In your still and narrow bed,
In the happy spring I'll come

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.

[ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]

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,
And the willow's gold hair then appears,
And snowy the cups of the dogwood that burst
By the red bud with pink-tinted tears.
And striped the bolls which the poppy holds up
For the dew, and the sun's yellow rays,
And brown is the pawpaw's shade-blossoming cup,
In the wood, near the sun-loving maize!

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,
And the blackbird doth follow his tread;
And idle, afar on the landscape descried,
The dew-lowing kine slowly graze,
And nibbling the grass on the sunny hillside
Are the sheep, hedged away from the maize.
With springtime and culture, in martial array
It waves its green broadswords on high,
And fights with the gale, in a fluttering fray,
And the sunbeams which fall from the sky;

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,
And but for the cook and the noontide horn
Old Time would be tempted to rest.

A song for the plant of my own native West,
Where nature and freedom reside,

By plenty still crowned, and by peace ever blest,
To the corn! the green corn of her pride!
In climes of the East has the olive been sung,
And the grape been the theme of their lays,
But for thee shall a harp of the backwoods be
strung,

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.

« PrejšnjaNaprej »