Thy leaves are scattered to the wind,
Scarcely thy stem remains behind.

I'll get some mould, provide a pot,
And in my little humble cot

A shelter thou shalt find, and bed,
To rear again thy scented head.
Thus mused I o'er the stricken flower,
And grieved I lack the helping power
To pierce each poor man's hovel, too,

And rear a joy for every woe.

VOL. I.

E

THE NEGLECTED HYACINTH.

I HAILED thee in the spring of life,
And sang thy merit's praise,

Ere thou hadst battled with the strife
And storm of wintry days.

I dearly love thee now as when
Within the fragrant dell,

Or by the roadside of the glen,
I sought thy purple bell.

Then, underneath some branching tree,
I quaffed thy odours sweet;
And hummed my notes of minstrelsy,
With brooklet at my feet.

In that loved nook I thought of ills
Which pressed my hapless race;

And dipped my crust in crystal rills,

And prized thy dwelling-place.

But thou art changed, for time has worn.

Thy matchless charms away;

And thou, alas! art left forlorn,

In thy declining day.

Once, damsels' lily fingers played

Around thy stems at noon;

Where groups of rosy children strayed,

To gather age a boon.

Now, those who burned with pious wrath

To see thy clusters strewed

So wanton on the beaten path,

Pass by in haughty mood:

And heedless of thy hapless plight,

They look on thee with scorn;

For flowers more gaudy meet their sight, And fringe the summer's morn.

But take it not to heart, sweet flower,

Nor pine in solitude,

If thou art doomed to feel the power

Of base ingratitude,

Since men inspired with heart and song,

Who loved both man and plant,

Have lived a life by far too long,

And starved through pinching want.

List Dryden's plaint-hear poor Burns mourn,
See Wilson, pale and wan;

Till Haydon follows in his turn,
And dies, a ruined man.

O had I but the well-filled purse,
And Heaven vouchsafed the power ;

I'd free

my fellow from his curse,

And save thee, too, sweet flower.

BUTTERFLIES AND FLOWERS.

(TO A FRIEND.)

As Sol was journeying through the year,
He paid his court to bonny May;
Who took him to a choice parterre,
To see her butterflies at play.

Through many a pathway fringed with green,
O'er many a rude-built rural stile,

The radiant Day-king tracked his Queen,
And paid her kindness with a smile.

Where wild flowers in profusion scent

With sweet perfumes the ambient air;

And trees in deep devotion bent,

And spread their hands to bless the pair.

Up rugged and primæval woods,

And down in far untrodden ways,

Where roll the everlasting floods,

The dazzling monarch shot his rays.