THE DANDELION.

53

Thou art my tropics and mine Italy;

To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime e; The eyes thou givest me

Are in the heart, and heed not space or time;

Not in mid-June, the golden cuirassed bee
Feels a more Summer-like, warm ravishment,
In the white lily's breezy tent,

His conquered Sybaris, than I, when first
From the dark green thy yellow circles burst.

Then think I of deep shadows on the grass,—
Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze,
Where, as the breezes pass,

The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways;—
Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass,
Or whiten in the wind,-or waters blue
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 thee; The sight of thee calls back the robin's song,

Who, from the dark oak tree

Beside the door, sang clearly all day long,

And I, secure in childish piety,

Listened as if I heard an angel sing

With news from heaven, which he did bring

Fresh every day to my untainted ears,

When birds and flowers and I were happy peers.

Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show,
Did we but pay the love we owe,

And with a child's undoubting wisdom look
On all these living pages of God's book.

To the Snow-Drop.

Barry Cornwall.

PRETTY firstling of the year!

Herald of the host of flowers! Hast thou left thy cavern drear, In the hope of summer hours? Back unto thy earthen bowers!

Back to thy warm world below, Till the strength of suns and showers Quell the now relentless snow.

Art still here?—Alive and blythe?
Though the stormy night hath fled,
And the frost hath passed his scythe,
O'er thy small unsheltered head?

Ah! some lie amidst the dead,

(Many a giant stubborn tree,

Many a plant, the Spirit shed,)

That were better nursed than thee!

56

BARRY

CORNWALL.

What hath saved thee? Thou wast not

'Gainst the arrowy Winter furred,— Armed in scale, but all forgot

When the frozen winds were stirred.
Nature, who doth clothe the bird,
Should have hid thee in the earth,
Till the cuckoo's song was heard,
And the Spring let loose her mirth.

Nature, deep and mystic word!
Mighty mother, still unknown!
Thou did'st sure the Snow-Drop gird
With an armor all thine own!
Thou, who sent'st it forth alone
To the cold and sullen season,
(Like a thought at random thrown,)
Sent it thus for some grave reason!

If 'twere but to pierce the mind
With a single gentle thought,

Who shall deem thee harsh or blind?
Who that thou hast vainly wrought?
Hoard the gentle virtue caught

From the Snow-Drop,-reader wise!
Good is good, wherever taught,

On the ground or in the skies!

The Violet.

Anonymous.

I

LOVE all things the seasons bring,

All buds that start, all birds that sing,

All leaves, from white to jet;

All the sweet words that Summer sends,
When she recalls her flowery friends,
But chief-the Violet!

I love, how much I love the rose,
On whose soft lips the South wind blows,
In pretty, amorous threat

The lily paler than the moon,

The odorous wondrous world of June,

Yet more-the Violet!

She comes, the first, the fairest thing,
That Heaven upon the earth doth fling,
Ere Winter's star has set;

She dwells behind her leafy screen,

And gives, as Angels give, unseen,
Lo, love-the Violet!