That the sweet buds which with a modest pride
Fell droopingly in slanting curve aside,
Their scanty-leaved and finely-tapering stems
Had not yet lost their starry diadems,

Caught from the early sobbings of the morn.

The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn,
And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept
On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept
A little noiseless noise among the leaves,
Born of the very sigh that silence heaves;
For not the faintest motion could be seen
Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green.
There was wide wandering for the greediest eye,
To peer about upon variety;

Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim,

And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim ;

To picture out the quaint and curious bending
Of a fresh woodland alley never-ending:

Or by the bowery clefts and leafy shelves,

Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves.

I gazed awhile, and felt as light and free

As though the fanning wings of Mercury

Had play'd upon my heels: I was light-hearted,
And many pleasures to my vision started;
So I straightway began to pluck a posy
Of luxuries bright, milky, soft, and rosy.

A bush of May-flowers with the bees about them;
Ah, sure no tasteful nook could be without them;

And let a lush laburnum oversweep them,

And let long grass grow round the roots, to keep them

Moist, cool, and green; and shade the violets,

That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.

A filbert-edge with wild-brier overtwined,

And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind
Upon their summer thrones; there too should be

The frequent checker of a youngling tree,

That with a score of bright-green brethren shoots
From the quaint mossiness of aged roots:

Round which is heard a spring head of clear waters,
Prattling so wildly of its lovely daughters,
The spreading blue-bells: it may haply mourn
That such fair clusters should be rudely torn
From their fresh beds, and scatter'd thoughtlessly

By infant hands left on the path to die.
Open afresh your round of starry folds,

Ye ardent marigolds!

Dry up the moisture from your golden lids,
For great Apollo bids

That in these days your praises should be sung
On many harps, which he has lately strung;
And when again your dewiness he kisses,
Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses:
So haply when I rove in some far vale,
His mighty voice may come upon the gale.

Here are sweet-peas, on tiptoe for a flight,
With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white,
And taper fingers catching at all things,
To bind them all about with tiny rings.
What next? A turf of evening primroses,
O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes;
O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep,
But that 'tis ever startled by the leap

Of buds into ripe flowers.

Keats.

THE ROSE.

O, lovely rose!

Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,

And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung

In deserts where no men abide,

Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired,

And not blush so to be admired.

Then die, that she

The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;

How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

Yet, though thou fade,

From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise;
And teach the maid

That goodness Time's rude hand defies;
That virtue lives when beauty dies.

Waller.