"Here just put your white hand in,
"Stealing honey is no sin."

But the Bees! The Bees flew out,
Stinging wildly all about.

Ah! poor Beauty's melting cries!
Love flies off, and as he flies,
"Take my share too, if you please,
"I love honey; but not Bees."

THE WILD FLOWER.

I SAW a Wild Flower in my walk
Just sparkling in the morning dew,

As blushing on its tender stalk,
The little child of Nature grew.

Ev'n as I look'd upon its breast,

It seem❜d to shrink with modest shame;

And trembling hung its rosy crest,

As if it fear'd to get a name.

Sweet Flower, said I, here flourish still,
A playmate for the busy Bee;

I will not pluck thee 'gainst thy will;
But leave thee beautifully free.

That rosy bloom, too sweet to fade,
May win a more becoming fate;
A nosegay for some lovely maid,
Presented by her bosom-mate.

Or if thou choose it, sweet wild thing,
Here live, and breathe thy latest sigh!
Then Zephyr, on his balmy wing,
Waft thy pure spirit to the sky!

TO A LADY,

AFTER HER MARRIAGE.

WELL! thou art married!—and my

Would fain recal its vow; :

heart

Yes, thou art married!—and we part

We part for ever now.

Then why should I retrace the hours,

My Sorrow but endears;

When Love and Joy entwin'd their flow'rs, Now wither'd with my tears.

Then blest as human pair could be,

We mingled vows and sighs;.. And all we saw, or wish'd to see,

Was in each other's eyes.

Yet now alas! thy husband's arms Embrace that dream of mine; Too happy to possess the charms, That I must thus resign.

O, thou who wert my life below,
What now remains for me?
One only hope can soothe

To die rememb'ring thee.

my woe

1

POEMS

BY

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THE observation of a very encomiastic traveller led her to the conclusion, that the Americans "have nothing of the poet in them, nor of the bel esprit, and that they are apt to be tiresome if "they attempt to be either." We are told also, by the same lively writer, that the Americans "have

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a surprising stock of information, but this runs "little into the precincts of imagination,-facts "form the ground-work of their discourse." Even the Americans themselves appear hitherto to have subscribed to this opinion; but it is apprehended that the publication of this small volume of poems by Mr. Bryant, will induce a belief that America is destined very speedily to become the mother of poets, who will compel the authors of Europe to guard their own laurels with no small degree of