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WILD FLOWERS.

B

EAUTIFUL children of the woods and fields !
That bloom by mountain streamlets 'mid the

heather,
Or into clusters, 'neath the hazels, gather;
Or where by hoary rocks you make

your bields, And sweetly flourish on through summer weather:

I love ye all ! Beautiful flowers ! to me ye fresher seem

From the Almighty hand that fashioned all,

Than those that flourish by a garden-wall ; And I can image you, as in a dream, Fair, modest maidens, nursed in hamlets small :

I love ye all ! Beautiful gems ! that on the brow of earth

Are fixed, as in a queenly diadem ;

Though lowly ye, and most without a name, Young hearts rejoice to see your buds come forth, As light erewhile into the dark world came :

I love ye all !

Beautiful things ye are, where'er ye grow!

The wild red rose—the speedwell's peeping eyesOur own bluebell—the daisy, that doth rise Wherever sunbeams fall or winds do blow; And thousands more, of blessed forms and dyes:

I love ye all !

Beautiful nurslings of the early dew!

Fanned in your loveliness, by every breeze,

And shaded o'er by green and arching trees ;
I often wish that I were one of you,
Dwelling afar
upon the grassy leas :-

I love ye all !

Beautiful watchers ! day and night ye wake !

The evening star grows dim and fades away, And morning comes and goes, and then the day Within the arms of night its rest doth take ; But ye are watchful wheresoe'er we stray :

I love ye all !

Beautiful objects of the wild-bee's love !

The wild bird joys your opening bloom to see,
And in your native woods and wilds to be.
All hearts, to Nature true, ye strangely move ;
Ye are so passing fair--so passing free :-

I love ye all !

Beautiful children of the glen and dell

The dingle deep-the moorland stretching wide, And of the mossy fountain's sedgy side ! Ye o'er my heart have thrown a lovesome spell ; And, though the worldling, scorning, may deride:-

I love ye all !

Robert Nicoll.

TO CERTAIN GOLDEN FISHES.

ESTLESS forms of living light,

R

Cheating still the curious sight
With a thousand shadowings;
Various as the tints of even,
Gorgeous as the hues of heaven,
Reflected on your native streams
In flitting, flashing, billowy gleams.
Harmless warriors clad in mail
Of silver breastplate, golden scale ;

Mail of Nature's own bestowing,
With peaceful radiance mildly glowing
Keener than the Tartar's arrow,
Sport ye in your sea so narrow.
Was the sun himself your sire ?
Were

ye

born of vital fire ? Or of the shade of golden flowers, Such as we fetch from eastern bowers, To mock this murky clime of ours ? Upwards, downwards, now ye glance, Weaving many a mazy dance; Seeming still to grow in size, When ye would elude our eyes. Pretty creatures ! we might deem Ye were happy as ye seem, As gay, as gamesome, and as blithe, As light, as loving, and as lithe, As gladly earnest in your play, As when ye gleamed in fair Cathay; And yet, since on this hapless earth There's small sincerity in mirth, And laughter oft is but an art To drown the outcry of the heart, It may be, that your ceaseless gambols, Your wheelings, dartings, divings, rambles, Your restless roving round and round The circuit of your crystal bound, Is but the task of weary pain, An endless labour, dull and vain; And while your forms are gaily shining, Your little lives are inly pining ! Nay—but still I fain would dream That ye are happy as ye seem.

Hartley Coleridge.

MIDNIGHT.

TH

HE moon shines white and silent

On the mist, which, like a tide Of some enchanted ocean, O’er the wide marsh doth glide, Spreading its ghost-like billows Silently far and wide.

A vague and starry magic

Makes all things mysteries,
And looses the earth's dumb spirit

Up to the longing skies-
I seem to hear deep whispers,

And tremulous replies.

The fireflies o'er the meadow

In pulses come and go; The elm tree's heavy shadow

Weighs on the grass below, And faintly from the distance

The dreaming cock doth crow.

All things look strange and mystic,
The
very

bushes swell
And take wild shapes and motions,

As if beneath a spell,–
They seem not the same lilacs

From childhood known so well.

The snow of deepest silence

On everything doth fall, So beautiful and quiet,

And yet so like a pall, As if all life were ended,

And rest were come to all.

Oh, wild and wondrous midnight,
There is a night in thee
To make the charmed body

Almost like spirit be,
And give

some faint glimpse
Of immortality!

Lowell.

O, NANNY, WILT THOU GANG WI' ME?"

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NANNY, wilt thou gang wi' me,

Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town?
Can silent glens have charms for thee,
The lowly cot and russet gown ?
Nae langer drest in silken sheen,

Nae langer deck'd wi' jewels rare,
Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene,

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?

0, Nanny, when thou’rt far awa,

Wilt thou not cast a look behind ?
Say, canst thou face the flaky snaw,

Nor shrink before the winter wind ?
O, can that soft and gentle mien

Severest hardships learn to bear,
Nor, sad, regret each courtly scene,

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?

0, Nanny, canst thou love so true,

Through perils keen wi’ me to gae ?
Or, when thy swain mishap shall rue,

To share with him the pang of wae ?
Say, should disease or pain befall,

Wilt thou assume the nurse's care,
Nor, wishful, those gay scenes recall,

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?

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