From joy to grief, from grief to joy again,
Through many an age, as oft as it came round,
'Twas held religiously with all observance.
The Doge resigned his crimson for pure ermine;
And through the city in a stately barge
Of gold, were borne, with songs and symphonies,
Twelve ladies young and noble. Clad they were
In bridal white with bridal ornaments,
Each in her glittering veil; and on the deck,
As on a burnished throne, they glided by;
No window or balcony but adorned
With hangings of rich texture, not a roof
But covered with beholders, and the air
Vocal with joy. Onward they went, the oars
Moving in concert with the harmony,
Through the Rialto to the Ducal Palace,
And at a banquet there, served with due honour,
Sat representing, in the eyes of all,
Eyes not unwet, I ween, with grateful tears, Their lovely ancestors, the Brides of Venice. Rogers.
HERE is a flower, a little flower
With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour
And weathers every sky.
The prouder beauties of the field,
but quick succession shine;
Race after race their honours yield,
They flourish and décline.
But this small flower to Nature dear,
While moons and stars their courses run,
Enwreathes the circle of the year,
Companion of the sun.
It smiles upon the lap of May,
To sultry August spreads its charm,
Lights pale October on his way,
And twines December's arm.
The purple heath and golden broom,
On moory mountains catch the gale;
O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume,
The violet in the vale.
But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.
Within the garden's cultured round
It shares the sweet carnation's bed;
And blooms on consecrated ground
In honour of the dead.
The lambkin crops its crimson gem;
The wild bee murmurs on its breast;
The blue fly bends its pensile stem,
Light o'er the skylark's nest.
'Tis Flora's page-in every place,
In every season, fresh and fair;
It opens with perennial grace,
And blossoms everywhere.
On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise;
The rose has but a summer reign;
The daisy never dies!
NDER my window, under my window,
All in midsummer weather,
Three little girls, with fluttering curls,
Flit to and fro together.
There's Bell, with her bonnet of satin sheen,
And Maud, with her mantle of silver green,
And Kate, with her scarlet feather.
Under my window, under my window,
Leaning stealthily over,
Merry and clear, the voice I hear
Of each glad-hearted rover.
Ah! sly little Kate, she steals my roses,
And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and posies,
As merry as bees in clover.
Under my window, under my window,
In the blue midsummer weather,
Stealing slow, on a hushed tiptoe,
I catch them all together;
Bell, with her bonnet of satin sheen,
And Maud, with her mantle of silver green,
And Kate, with the scarlet feather.
Under my window, under my window,
And off through the orchard closes;
While Maud she flouts, and Bell she pouts,
They scamper and drop their posies;
But dear little Kate takes nought amiss,
And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss,
And I give her all my roses.
OWN in a field, one day in June,
D The flowers all bloomed together,
Save one, who tried to hide herself, And drooped that pleasant weather.
A robin, who had soared too high,
And felt a little lazy,
Was resting near a buttercup
Who wished she were a daisy.
For daisies grow so trim and tall;
She always had a passion
For wearing frills about her neck,
In just the daisies' fashion.
And buttercups must always be
The same old tiresome colour,
While daisies dress in gold and white,
Although their gold is duller.
"Dear Robin," said the sad young flower, Perhaps you'd not mind trying
To find a nice white frill for me,
Some day when you are flying?"
"You silly thing! the robin said;
I think you must be crazy!
I'd rather be my honest self
Than any made-up daisy.
"You're nicer in your own bright gown,
The little children love you ;
Be the best buttercup you can,
And think no flower above you.
'Though swallows leave me out of sight,
We'd better keep our places;
Perhaps the world would all go wrong
With one too many daisies.
"Look bravely up into the sky,
And be content with knowing
That God wished for a buttercup
Just here where you are growing."
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