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THE FLOWER THAT FEELS NOT SPRING.

From the prisons dark of the circling bark

The leaves of tenderest green are glancing;

They gambol on high in the bright blue sky,

Fondly with spring's young Zephyrs dancing,

While music and joy and jubilee gush

From the lark and linnet, the blackbird and thrush.

The butterfly springs on its new-born wings,

The dormouse starts from his wintry sleeping;

The flowers of earth find a second birth,

To light and life from the darkness leaping:

The roses and tulips will soon resume
Their youth's first perfume and primitive bloom.

What renders me sad when all nature glad

The heart of each living creature cheers ?

I laid in the bosom of earth a blossom,

And water'd its bed with a father's tears;

But the grave has no spring, and I still deplore
That the flow’ret I planted comes up no more!

That eye, whose soft blue of the firmament's hue,

Express'd all holy and heavenly things,

Those ringlets bright, which scatter'd a light

Such as angels shake from their sunny wings,

That cheek, in whose freshness my heart had trust

All-all have perish'd-my daughter is dust!

Yet the blaze sublime of thy virtue's prime,

Still gilds my tears and a balm supplies,

As the matin ray of the god of day

Brightens the dew which at last it dries :

Yes, Fanny! I cannot regret thy clay,
When I think where thy spirit has wing'd its way.

So wither we all--so flourish and fall,

Like the flowers and weeds that in churchyards wave;

Our leaves we spread over comrades dead,

And blossom and bloom with our root in the grave;

Springing from earth, into earth we are thrust,

Ashes to ashes and dust to dust!

If death's worst smart is to feel that we part

From those we love and shall see no more,

It softens its sting to know that we wing

Our flight to the friends who have gone before;

And the grave is a boon and a blessing to me,

If it waft me, O Fanny, my daughter, to thee !

MORAL RUINS.

Asia's rock-hollow'd Fanes, first-born of Time,

In sculpture's prime,

Wrought by the ceaseless toil of many a race,

Whom none may trace,

Have crumbled back to wastes of ragged stone,

And formless caverns, desolate and lone;

Egypt's stern Temples, whose colossal mound,

Sphinx-guarded, frown'd

From brows of Granite challenges to Fate,

And human hate,

Are giant ruins in a desert land,

Or sunk to sculptured quarries in the sand.

The marble miracles of Greece and Rome,

Temple and Dome,

Art's masterpieces, awful in th’ excess

Of loveliness,

Hallow'd by statued Gods which might be thought

To be themselves by the Celestials wrought,

Where are they now?-their majesty august

Grovels in dust.

Time on their altars prone their ruins flings

As offerings,

Forming a lair whence ominous bird and brute

Their wailful Misereres howl and hoot.

Down from its height the Druid's sacred stone

In sport is thrown,

And many a Christian Fane have change and hate

Made desolate,

Prostrating saint, apostle, statue, bust,
With Pagan deities to mingle dust.

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