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On, with intense desire,,
Man's spirit will move on ;
It seems to die, yet, like heaven's fire,
It is not quench’d, but gone.


Here lies a bulb, the child of earth,
Buried alive beneath the clod,
Ere long to spring, by second birth,
A new and nobler work of God.

'Tis said that microscopic power
Might through its swaddling folds descry
The infant-image of the flower,
Too exquisite to meet the eye.

This, vernal suns and rains will swell,
Till from its dark abode it peep,
Like Venus rising from her shell,
Amidst the spring-tide of the deep.

Two shapely leaves will first unfold,
Then on a smooth elastic stem,
The verdant bud shall turn to gold,
And open in a diadem.

Not one of Flora's brilliant race
A form more perfect can display ;
Art could not feign more simple grace,
Nor Nature take a line away.

Yet, rich as morn of many a hue, .
When flushing clouds through darkness strike,
The tulip's petals shine in dew,
All beautiful, — but none alike.

Kings, on their bridal, might unrobe
To lay their glories at its foot;
And queens their sceptre, crown, and globe,
Exchange for blossom, stalk, and root.

Here could I stand and moralize; Lady, I leave that part to thee; Be thy next birth in Paradise, Thy life to come eternity.


Addressed to a Young Lady.

A star would be a flower ;
So down from heaven it came,
And, in a honeysuckle bower,
Lit up its little flame.
There on a bank, beneath the shade,
By sprays, and leaves, and blossoms made,
It overlook'd the garden-ground,
- A landscape stretching ten yards round:
O what a change of place
From gazing through the' eternity of space!

Gay plants on every side
Unclosed their lovely blooms,
And scatter'd far and wide
Their ravishing perfumes :

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