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And when at last thy love shall die,
Wilt thou receive his parting breath?
of death ? And wilt thou o'er his much-loved clay
Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear? Nor then regret those scenes so gay, Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?
Dr. Thomas Percy.
THE SEMPSTRESS TO HER MIGNONETTE.
LOVE that box of mignonette ;
Though worthless in your eyes,
My mignonette I prize ;
A money worth to set ;
My box of mignonette
Is neither strange nor rare,
That it may never wear;
No eyes were ever set
My box of mignonette.
That lights my window there ?
It steals a weight from care;
Can I not half forget
With you, my mignonette ?
It tells of May, my mignonette,
And as I see it bloom,
Comes freshly through my room ;
Yet when my eyes you met,
My box of mignonette.
To me it babbles still
Of heath and breezy hill ;
Through paths with morning wet,
With you, my mignonette. For this I love my mignonette,
My window garden small, That country thoughts and scents and sounds
Around me loves to call ;
Your worth and love be set-
W. C. Bennett.
THE MINSTREL BOY.
In the ranks of death you'll find him ;
And his wild harp slung behind him. “Land of song!” said the warrior bard,
Though all the world betrays thee,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!'
The minstrel fell ! but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
For he tore its chords asunder,
Thou soul of song and bravery!
TO THE DANDELION.
EAR common flower, that grow'st beside the
way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold,
First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold.
High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they
Which not the rich earth's ample round
Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow Through the primeval hush of Indian seas,
Nor wrinkled the lean brow
'Tis the spring's largess, which she scatters now To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand,
Though most hearts never understand To take it at God's value, but pass by The offered wealth with unrewarded eye.
Thou art my tropics and mine Italy;
The eyes thou givest me
Not in mid-June the golden-cuirassed bee
Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment
In the white lily's breezy tent,
Then think I of deep shadows on the grass,
Where, as the breezes pass,
Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass,
That from the distance sparkle through Some woodland gap-and of a sky above, Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with
Who, from the dark old tree
And I, secure in childish piety,
With news from Heaven, which he could bring
How like a prodigal doth Nature seem,
Thou teachest me to deem More sacredly of every human heart,
Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam
Did we but pay the love we owe,