For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave,
O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid,
While thy branches thus gratefully shelter his grave,
The chief who survives may recline in thy shade.
And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot,
He will tell them in whispers, more softly to tread,
Oh! surely by these I shall ne'er be forgot,
Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead.
And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime,
Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay,
And here must he sleep, till the moments of time
Are lost in the hours of eternity's day.
AGAIN the ruthless weapon sweeps the ground,
And the grey Corn-crake trembles at the sound;
Her callow brood around her cowering cling,—
She braves its edge-she mourns her severed wing;
Oft had she taught them with a mother's love,
To note the pouncing merlin from the dove;
The slowly floating buzzard's eye to shun,
As o'er the meads he hovers in the sun;
The weazel's sly imposture to prevent;
And mark the marten by his musky scent ;-
Ah! fruitless skill, which taught her not to scan
The scythe afar, and ruthless arm of man!
In vain her mate, as evening-shadows fall,
Shall lingering wait for her accustomed call:
The shepherd-boys shall oft her loss deplore
That mocked her notes beside the cottage door.
DR. LEYDEN.
The Corn-crake, or Land-rail, Rallus Crex, visits our fields in April and leaves us in October. Its well-known cry very much resembles that of a comb when the finger is drawn along the teeth, and which has been used as a decoy.
SUPPOSED TO BE ADDRESSED TO DR. CAREY.
THRICE welcome, little English flower !
My mother-country's white and red,
In rose or lily, till this hour,
Never to me such beauty spread :
Transplanted from thine island-bed,
A treasure in a grain of earth,
Strange as a spirit from the dead,
Thine embryo sprang to birth.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
Whose tribes beneath our natal skies
Shut close their leaves while vapours lower;
But when the sun's gay beams arise,
With unabash'd but modest eyes
Follow his motion to the West,
Nor cease to gaze till daylight dies,
Then fold themselves to rest.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
To this resplendent hemisphere,
Where Flora's giant-offspring tower
In gorgeous liveries all the
Thou, only thou, art little here,
Like worth unfriended or unknown,
Yet to my British heart more dear
Than all the torrid zone.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
Of early scenes beloved by me,
While happy in my father's bower,
Thou shalt the blithe memorial be:
The fairy-sports of infancy,
Youth's golden age, and manhood's prime,
Home, country, kindred, friends,—with thee
I find in this fair clime.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
I'll rear thee with a trembling hand;
Oh for the April sun and shower,
The sweet May-dews of that fair land,
Where Daisies, thick as starlight, stand
In every walk!—that here might shoot
Thy scions and thy buds expand
A hundred from one root!
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
To me the pledge of hope unseen :
When sorrow would my soul o'erpower
For joys that were, or might have been,
I'll call to mind, how,-fresh and green,
I saw thee waking from the dust,—
Then turn to heaven with brow serene
And place in God my trust.
These beautiful lines, from the pen of our esteemed poet, Montgomery, are said to owe their origin to the following extract from a letter written by the Rev. Dr. Carey, the intelligent Baptist minister, at Mysore, to a friend in Yorkshire With great labour have I preserved the common field-daisy, which came up accidentally in some English earth, for six or seven years, but my whole stock is now only one plant. I have never been able, even with sheltering them, to preserve an old root through the rains, but I get a few seedlings every year. The proportion of small plants in the country is very inconsiderable, the greater number of our vegetable productions being either large shrubs, immense climbers, or timber trees."-It is pleasing to know that our pious missionaries in foreign climes do not forget thus "to interweave a sprig of science from time to time, among their amaranthine wreathes, which are not of this world."
But fair the exiled Palm-tree grew
'Mid foliage of no kindred hue;
Through the laburnum's drooping gold
Rose the light shaft of orient mould.
And Europe's violets, faintly sweet,
Purpled the moss-beds at its feet.
Strange looked it there!-the willow stream'd
Where silvery waters near it gleam'd;
The lime-bough lured the honey-bee
To murmur by the desert's tree,
And showers of snowy roses made
A lustre in its fan-like shade.
There came an eve of festal hours-
Rich music filled the garden bowers:
Lamps that from flowering branches hung,
On sparks of dew soft colours flung,
And bright forms glanced-a fairy show-
Under the blossoms to and fro.
one, a lone one, 'mid the throng,
Seemed reckless all of dance and song:
He was a youth of dusky mien,
Whereon the Indian sun had been,
Of crested brow, and long black hair—
A stranger, like the Palm-tree, there.
And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes,
Glittering athwart the leafy glooms;
He passed the pale green olives by,
Nor won the chesnut flowers his eye;
But when to that sole Palm he came,
Then shot a rapture through his frame !
To him, to him, its rustling spoke,
The silence of his soul it broke !
It whispered of its own bright isle,
That lit the ocean with a smile;
Ay, to his ear that native tone
Had something of the sea-wave's moan;
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