SONG.

O LADY, leave thy silken thread
And flowery tapestrie :
There's living roses on the bush,
And blossoms on the tree;

Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand
Some random bud will meet;

Thou canst not tread, but thou wilt find
The daisy at thy feet.

'Tis like the birthday of the world,

When earth was born in bloom;

The light is made of many dyes,

The air is all perfume;

There's crimson buds, and white and blue

The very rainbow showers

Have turn'd to blossoms where they fell,

And sown the earth with flowers.

There's fairy tulips in the east,
The garden of the sun ;

The very streams reflect the hues,
And blossom as they run :

While Morn opes like a crimson rose, Still wet with pearly showers; Then, lady, leave the silken thread

Thou twinest into flowers!

TIME, HOPE, AND MEMORY.

I HEARD a gentle maiden, in the spring,
Set her sweet sighs to music, and thus sing:
"Fly through the world, and I will follow thee,
Only for looks that may turn back on me;

Only for roses that your chance may throwThough wither'd-I will wear them on my brow,

To be a thoughtful fragrance to my brain; Warm'd with such love, that they will bloom again.

Thy love before thee, I must tread behind, Kissing thy foot-prints, though to me unkind; But trust not all her fondness, though it seem, Lest thy true love should rest on a false dream.

Her face is smiling, and her voice is sweet;
But smiles betray, and music sings deceit;
And words speak false;—yet, if they welcome

prove,

I'll be their echo, and repeat their love.

Only if waken'd to sad truth, at last,

The bitterness to come, and sweetness past; When thou art vext, then, turn again, and see Thou hast loved Hope, but Memory loved thee."

FLOWERS.

I WILL not have the mad Clytie,
Whose head is turn'd by the sun;
The tulip is a courtly quean,
Whom, therefore I will shun;
The cowslip is a country wench,

The violet is a nun ;

But I will woo the dainty rose,

The queen of every one.

The pea is but a wanton witch,
In too much haste to wed,

And clasps her rings on every hand
The wolfsbane I should dread ;--
Nor will I dreary rosemarye,
That always mourns the dead ;-

But I will woo the dainty rose,

With her cheeks of tender red.

The lily is all in white, like a saint,

And so is no mate for me

;

And the daisy's cheek is tipp'd with a blush, She is of such low degree;