Among the loose and arid sands The humble Arenaria creeps; Slowly the purple star expands, But soon within its calyx sleeps. And those small bells so lightly ray'd With young Aurora's rosy hue, Are to the noon-tide Sun display'd, But shut their plaits against the dew. On upland slopes the shepherds mark Lifts her soft eyes, serenely blue. And thou "Wee crimson tipped flower," Gatherest thy fringed mantle round Thy bosom, at the closing hour, When night drops bathe the turfy ground. Unlike Silene, who declines The garish noontide's blazing light; But when the evening crescent shines Gives all her sweetness to the night. Thus in each flower and simple bell, Are sweet remembrancers who tell How fast the winged moments fly. I 2 Time will steal on with ceaseless pace, Yet lose we not the fleeting hours, Who still their fairy footsteps trace, As light they dance among the flowers. SAINT MONICA. AMONG deep woods is the dismantled scite Of an old Abbey, where the chaunted rite, By twice ten brethren of the monkish cowl, Was duly sung; and requiems for the soul. Of the first founder: For the lordly chief, Who flourish'd paramount of many a fief, Left here a stipend yearly paid, that they, The pious monks, for his repose might say Mass and orisons to Saint Monica. Beneath the falling archway overgrown With briars, a bench remains, a single stone, Where sat the indigent, to wait the dole Given at the buttery; that the baron's soul The poor might intercede for; there would rest, Known by his hat of straw with cockles drest, And staff and humble weed of watchet gray, The wandering pilgrim; who came there to pray The intercession of Saint Monica. Stern Reformation and the lapse of years Have reft the windows, and no more appears Abbot or martyr on the glass anneal'd; And half the falling cloisters are conceal'd |