Puslapio vaizdai
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But man alone to bounteous Heaven,

Thanksgiving's conscious strains can raise ;
To favoured man alone 'tis given

To join the angelic choir in praise !

MRS. OPIE.

THE COWSLIP.

COWSLIP of all beloved, of all admired!
Thee let me sing, the homely shepherd's pride;
Fit emblem of the maid I love, a form
Gladdening the sight of man; a sweet perfume,
Sending its balmy fragrance to the soul;
Daughter of Spring, and Messenger of May!
Which shall I first declare, which most extol,
Thy sovereign beauties, or thy sovereign use?
With thee the rural dame a draught prepares,
A nectar draught, more luscious to my taste
Than all thy boasted wine, besotted Bacchus !
Maidens with thee their auburn tresses braid;
Or, with the daisy and the primrose pale
Thy flowers entwining, weave a chaplet fair,

Το

grace that pole round which the village train
Lead on their dance to greet the jocund May;
Oft on that merry morn, I've joined their throng
A glad spectator; oft their uncouth dance
Eyed most attentive; when, with tawdry show,
Ill-sorted ribbons decked each maiden's cap,
And cowslip-garlands every rustic hat.

The Cowslip or Paigle, Primula veris, is called by the French peasants, Fleur de coucou, from its blooming at the time the cuckoo appears.

The corolla

is marked within with five orange spots, in which Shakspeare supposed its sweet odour to reside:

The Cowslips tall her pensioners be

In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,

In those freckles live their savours.

Mids. Night. ii. 1.

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THERE is a bay, all still and lone,
And in the shade one broad grey stone,
Where at the evening hour,

The sun upon the water weaves
Motions of light among the leaves
Of a low-hanging bower;

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I thought perchance, that sin and strife
Might in a winged creature's life,
Be somehow strangely blent;
So hermit-like he lived apart,
And might be in his little heart
A woodland penitent !

Deceitful thing! into the brook
Hour after hour, a stedfast look
From off his perch was sent ;
And yet, I thought, his eyes too bright,
Too happy for an anchorite

On lonely penance bent.

Ah! yes, for long his nest hath been
Behind yon alder's leafy screen
By Rothay's chiming waters;
Two rapid years are run, and now
This monk hath peopled every bough
With little sons and daughters.

I will not blame thee, Friar Wren,
Because among stout-hearted men
Some truant monks there be ;
And, if you could their names collect,
I rather more than half suspect

That I should not be free.

Ere while I dreamed of cloistered cells,
Of gloomy courts and matin bells,
And painted windows rare;
But common life's less real gleams
Shone warm on my monastic dreams,
And melted them in air.

My captive heart is altered now;
And, had I but one little bough

Of thy green alder-tree,
I would not live too long alone,
Or languish there for want of one
To share the nest with me!

From Cherwell Water-Lily and other Poems by
REV. F. W. FABER, M. A.

FRIENDSHIP.

OH! when my friend and I

In some thick wood have wandered heedless on,
Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down
Upon the sloping cowslip-covered bank,
Where the pure limpid stream has slid along
In grateful errors through the underwood,

Sweet murmuring; methought the shrill-tongued thrush
Mended his song of love; the sooty blackbird
Mellowed his pipe, and softened every note :
The eglantine smelled sweeter, and the rose
Assumed a dye more deep; whilst every flower
Vied with its fellow plant in luxury

Of dress.-Oh! then, the longest Summer's day
Seem'd too, too much in haste: still the full heart
Had not imparted half: 'twas happiness
Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed,
Not to return, how painful the remembrance.

ROBERT BLAIR.

A CONTEMPLATION

UPON THE SHALLOWNESS OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE.

IF of the smallest star in sky
We know not the dimensity;

If those pure sparks that stars compose,
The highest human wit do pose;

How then, poor shallow man, canst thou
The Maker of these glories know?

If we know not the air we draw,
Nor what keeps winds and waves in awe ;
If our small skulls cannot contain
The flux and saltness of the main;

If scarce a cause we ken below;
How shall we the Supernal know?

If it be a mysterious thing,

Why steel should to the loadstone cling:
If we know not why jet should draw,
And with such kisses hug a straw;
If none can truly yet reveal,
How sympathetic powders heal;

If we scarce know the earth we tread,
Or half the simples that are bred,
With minerals, and thousand things
Which for man's health and food she brings;
If Nature 's so obscure, then how
Can we the God of Nature know?

What the bat's eye is to the sun;
Or of a glow-worm to the moon ;
The same is human intellect,

If on our Maker we reflect,

Whose magnitude is so immense,

That it transcends both soul and sense.

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