5

The Harebell.

Thou shalt be sorrow's love and mine,
The violet and the eglantine

With spring are banished;

In summer's beam the roses shine;
But I of thee my wreath will twine,
When these are vanished.

H. HEBER.

81

JUNE WILD FLOWERS.

RETIRING May to lovely.June,

Her latest garland now resigns;
The banks with cuckoo flowers are strewn,
The woodwalks blue with columbines.
And with its reeds the wandering stream,
Reflects the flag-flower's golden beam.

CHARLOTTE SMITH.

A HEALTHFUL DWELLING.

WHERE marjoram

And thyme, the love of bees, perfume the air,
There bid thy roofs high on the basking steep
Ascend; there light thy hospitable fires.

TO MAY.

ARMSTRONG.

COME, beautiful May!

Like youth and loveliness,

Like her I love; O, come! in thy full dress,
The drapery of dark winter cast away;
To the bright eye and the glad heart appear
Queen of the spring and mistress of the year.

Yet, lovely May!

Teach her, whose eyes shall rest upon this rhyme, To spurn the gilded mockeries of time,

The heartless pomp, that beckons to betray; And keep, as thou wilt find, that heart each year Pure as thy dawn, and as thy sunset clear.

The True Lovers' Knot.

CONJUGAL LOVE.

¡ROP to drop within the ocean,
Star to star in heaven above,
Moving with harmonious motion
Round the sun they love!
Brotherhood and sympathy

Are the laws that flow from thee.
Love!-that art within the mind
Of our erring sinful kind

Even this a recollection
Of a holier affection,

Its kindred sweet-those forms that bless
This world with their own loveliness,
And fill the sense with music, flung
From harps unearthly, spirit-strung.
What if it fell to mix with men
And none must feel it pure again,—
At some sweet times-it seems to wear
The seraph robes that erst it bare ;
At some sweet times-its whispers come,
Like echoes, from its heavenly home,
When heart meets heart and life is love.
LATHAM.

-TEGNER.

83

TELL ME NO MORE.

ELL me no more how fair she is;
I have no mind to hear
The story of that distant bliss
I never shall come near:
By sad experience I have found

That her perfection is my

wound.

And tell me not how fond I am

To tempt my daring fate,

From whence no triumph ever came

But to repent too late :

There is some hope ere long I may

In silence dote myself away.

I ask no pity, Love, from thee,
Nor will thy justice blame;
So that thou wilt not envy me
The glory of my flame;

Which crowns my heart whene'er it dies,
In that it falls her sacrifice.

HENRY KING.

HALL I like a hermit dwell
On a rock or in a cell,

Calling home the smallest part
That is missing of my heart,
To bestow it where I may
Meet a rival every day?

If she undervalue me,

What care I how fair she be?

Were her tresses angel-gold,*

If a stranger may be bold

Unrebuked, unafraid

To convert them to a braid,
And with little more ado

Work them into bracelets too;-
If the mine be grown so free,
What care I how rich it be?

*Angel-gold was of a finer kind than crown-gold.