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النشر الإلكتروني

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.

YOUNG HERALD of the spring, pale Primrose flower,
Peering so sweetly from the frozen earth,
Why art thou blooming in this sunless hour,
When not a daisy in the field or bower
Hath sprung to birth ;-

When Nature sleepeth in her wintry thrall,
Leafless, and verdureless, and silent all?

Thy stainless sister, Snowdrop, is not here,
Though call'd the earliest of thy fragrant race;
Upon the stormy threshold of the year,
None of thy kindred venture to appear
With new-born grace,

Lest the keen frost-wind, with remorseless breath,
Should blow into their hearts the seeds of death.

No lark is chanting o'er the lonely hill,

No thrush is piping in the shelter'd vale;
The streams are voiceless, and the silvery rill,
Which seems to quiver, stands subdued and still
Beneath the gale:

There is no motion in the tenderest trees,
And the frail bulrush bends not to the breeze.

The buds are yet in embryo; the light

Hath brought no vernal promise to the thorn; The fields are shrouded in resplendent white, And in this solemn time, half day, half night, Follows the morn;

A cold, grey sky bends o'er the barren plain, And the blind sun looks from his throne in vain.

Welcome thou art, though like a poor man's child,
Brought without joy into a home of gloom;
'Mid mournful sounds and fearful tempests wild,
Thou comest forth, fresh, fair, and undefiled,
From Nature's womb,

Baring thy breast to the inclement sky,
To brave its storms, or prematurely die.

Gazing on thee, Association brings

A thousand golden intervals of time,
A thousand pleasant, unforgotten things,
Which Memory colours with her magic wings,
Bright and sublime ;-

Old loves and friendships, happy hearts and faces,
Old songs and tales, and old romantic places.

I feel thy breath, and Fancy leads the way
To many a solitude of youthful choice,
Where the glad lark, his tribute hymn to pay,
Hails the Aurora of returning day

With merry voice,

When the faint starlight of the night-time yields To the sweet floral starlight of the fields.

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Green forest haunts come back to me, where I
Feasted my soul with man's immortal words;
And winding lanes, where dewy roses sigh
Their odours out to breezes passing by,—
Where happy birds

Sing to the sparkling waters, as they sweep,
Brightly and blithely, onward to the deep.

I hear the voice of children at their play,
Gathering sweet garlands from the hedgerow side;
I hear the talk of lovers as they stray,
Absorb'd in joy, along some bowery way,
Or valley wide,-

Earnest but soft, with frequent pause they speak,
While blushes mantle on the maiden's cheek.

Fair, fragrant promiser of brighter hours,

Like Hope, thou smilest on my weary eye ;—
Fairer, because the firstling of the flowers-
Dearer, because a shade of sadness lowers
Along the sky-

Richer, because thou teachest from the sod,
A lore which lifts my musings unto God!

FROM

HOURS WITH THE MUSES." By J. C. PRINCE.*

* A poet in very humble life. In a biographical sketch, prefixed to his poems, it is said: "On a bundle of straw did this wretched family, consisting of a man and his wife, and three children, lie for several months."

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