A sacred spark created by His breath, The immortal mind of man His image bears;

A spirit living 'midst the forms of death, Oppressed but not subdued by mortal

cares;

91

To live in forests mingled with the whole Of natural forms, whose generations rise,

In lovely change, in happy order roll, On land, in ocean, in the glittering skies;

Their harmony to trace; the Eternal cause

To know in love, in reverence to adore; To bend beneath the inevitable laws,

Sinking in death, its human strength no more!

Then, as awakening from a dream of pain,

With joy its mortal feelings to resign;

Yet all its living essence to retain,

The undying energy of strength divine!

To quit the burdens of its earthly days, To give to nature all her borrowed powers,

Ethereal fire to feed the solar rays, Ethereal dew to glad the earth with showers.

GEORGE CROLY.

[1780-1860.]

CUPID GROWN CAREFUL.

THERE was once a gentle time
When the world was in its prime;
And every day was holiday,
And every month was lovely May.
Cupid then had but to go

With his purple wings and bow;

And in blossomed vale and grove
Every shepherd knelt to love.

Then a rosy, dimpled cheek,
And a blue eye, fond and meek;
And a ringlet-wreathen brow,
Like hyacinths on a bed of snow:
And a low voice, silver sweet,
From a lip without deceit;
Only those the hearts could move
Of the simple swains to love.

But that time is gone and past,
Can the summer always last?
And the swains are wiser grown,
And the heart is turned to stone,
And the maiden's rose may wither;
Cupid's fled, no man knows whither.
But another Cupid's come,
With a brow of care and gloom:
Fixed upon the earthly mould,
Thinking of the sullen gold;
In his hand the bow no more,
At his back the household store,
That the bridal gold must buy:
Useless now the smile and sigh:
But he wears the pinion still,
Flying at the sight of ill.

O, for the old true-love time,
When the world was in its prime !

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

[1785-1806.]

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.

Come, press my lips, and lie with

me

Beneath the lowly alder-tree,

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, And not a care shall dare intrude, To break the marble solitude So peaceful and so deep.

And hark! the wind-god, as he flies,
Moans hollow in the forest trees,
And sailing on the gusty breeze,
Mysterious music dies.

Sweet flower! that requiem wild is
mine,

It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf altar of the dead;
My grave shall be in yon lone spot,
Where as I lie, by all forgot,

A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my
ashes shed.

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.

MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire!

Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Was nursed in whirling storms, And cradled in the winds.

Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway,

And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,

Thee on this bank he threw

To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the

year,

bloom

On January's front severe,

And o'er the wintry desert drear
To waft thy waste perfume!

Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow;
And as I twine the mournful wreath,
I'll weave a melancholy song:
And sweet the strain shall be and long,
The melody of death.

Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell
With the pale corpse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom
A sweet decaying smell.

Unnoticed and alone,