B

ELOVED, thou hast brought me many flowers
Plucked in the garden, all the summer through

And winter, and it seemed as if they grew

In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers.

So, in the like name of that love of

ours,

Take back these thoughts which here unfolded too,

And which on warm and cold days I withdrew

From my heart's ground. Indeed, those beds and bowers Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue,

And wait thy weeding; yet here's eglantine,

Here's ivy !-take them, as I used to do

Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine;

Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true,

And tell thy soul, their roots are left in mine.

F I might choose, where my tired limbs shall lie
When my task here is done, the Oak's green

crest

Should rise above my grave-a little mound
Raised in some cheerful village cemetery-
And I could wish, that, with unceasing sound
A lonely mountain rill was murmuring by-
In music-through the long soft twilight hours;
And let the hand of her, whom I love best,

Plant round the bright green grave those fragrant flowers,

In whose deep bells the wild-bee loves to rest---

And should the robin, from some neighbouring tree,

Pour his enchanted song-oh, softly tread,

For sure, if aught of earth can sooth the dead,

He still must love that pensive melody!

1815.

JOHN ANSTER.

TO THE BRITISH OAK.

HEN, sacred plant, the Druid sage of old,
With reverential awe, beheld in thee

The abode or emblem of Divinity,

Methinks some vague prophetic vision rolled
Before his wondering eyes, and dimly told
Thy future fame-thy glorious destiny:

Haply e'en then, deep musing, he might see,
Within thy trunk revered, that Spirit bold,

Which sprung from thence in after times, and stood, Rejoicing in his might, on Ocean's flood,

The guardian genius of Britannia's Isle ;

At whose dread voice admiring nations bow, In duteous homage,—tyrants are laid lowAnd fierce Oppression's victims learn to smile.

OT war, nor hurrying troops from plain to plain, Nor deed of high resolve, nor stern command, Sing I; the brow that carries trace of pain Long and enough the sons of song have scann'd : Nor lady's love in honeysuckle bower,

With helmet hanging by, in stolen ease;
Poets enough I deemed of heavenly power
Ere now had lavished upon themes like these.
My harp and I have sought a holier meed;

The fragments of God's image to restore,
The earnest longings of the soul to feed,
And balms into the spirit's wounds to pour :
One gentle voice hath bid our task God-speed;
And now we search the world to hear of more.

THE MASTER'S CALL.

ISE, said the Master, come unto the feast:-
She heard the call and rose with willing feet;

But thinking it not otherwise than meet

For such a bidding to put on her best,
She is gone from us for a few short hours

Into her bridal closet, there to wait
For the unfolding of the palace-gate,

That gives her entrance to the blissful bowers.

We have not seen her yet, though we have been

Full often to her chamber-door, and oft

Have listened underneath the postern green,

And laid fresh flowers, and whispered short and soft;

But she hath made no answer; and the day

From the clear west is fading fast away.