The purple heath and golden broom, On moory mountains catch the gale; O'er lawns, the lily sheds perfume, The violet in the vale.
But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen;
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.
Within the garden's cultur'd round
It shares the sweet carnation's bed;
And blooms on consecrated ground,
In honour of the dead.
The lambkin crops its crimson gem, The wild-bee murmurs on its breast; The blue-fly bends its pensile stem, Light o'er the skylark's nest.
'Tis Flora's page: in every place,
In every season, fresh and fair,
It opens with perennial grace,
And blossoms every where.
On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise;
The Rose has but a summer reign,
The DAISY never dies.
FROM Greenland's icy mountains, From India's coral strand, Where Afric's sunny fountains Roll down their golden sand; From many an ancient river, From many a sunny plain; They call us to deliver
Their land from Error's chain.
What, though the spicy breezes
Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle,
Though every prospect pleases,
And only Man is vile;
In vain, with lavish kindness,
The gifts of God are strown;
The heathen, in his blindness,
Bows down to wood and stone.
Shall we, whose souls are lighted
With wisdom from on high;
Shall we, to men benighted,
The Lamp of Life deny ?
Salvation! oh, Salvation!
The joyful sound proclaim, "Till each remotest nation
Has learnt Messiah's name!
Waft, waft, ye winds, His story;
And you, ye waters, roll;
Till, like a sea of glory,
It spreads from pole to pole;
Till o'er our ransom'd nature
The Lamb for sinners slain,
Redeemer, King, Creator,
In bliss returns to reign.
THE FIVE OAKS OF DALLWITZ.
From the German of Körner.
'Tis evening-in the silent west
The rosy hues of day-light fade;
And here I lay me down to rest,
Beneath your venerable shade!
Bright records of a better day;
Aged, but sacred from decay,
Still in your stately forms reside,
Of ages past, the grace and pride!
The brave hath died, the good hath sunk,
The beautiful hath pass'd away;
Yet green each bough, and strong each trunk,
That smiles in evening's farewell ray.
Storms blew in vain: the leaves still spread
A bright crown on each aged head;
And yet, methinks, the branches sigh,
"Farewell-the great of earth must die!"
But ye have stood!-still bold and high,
And fresh, and strong, and undecay'd;
When hath the pilgrim wander'd by,
Nor rested in your quiet shade?
Ye mourn not when the sere leaves fall,
At coming Winter's icy call!
They perish in their parent earth,
They nurse the tree that gave them birth!
WHERE the remote Bermudas ride,
In th' ocean's bosom unespy'd,
From a small boat that row'd along,
The list'ning winds receiv'd this song:
"What should we do, but sing His praise That led us through the wat'ry maze, Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own?
"Where He the huge sea-monsters racks, That lift the deep upon their backs; He lands us on a grassy stage,
Safe from the storm's and prelate's rage.
"He gave us this eternal spring,
Which here enamels every thing;
And sends the fowls to us in care,
On daily visits through the air.
"He hangs in shades the orange bright,
Like golden lamps in a green night;
And in these rocks for us did frame
A temple where to sound his name.
"Oh! let our voice his praise exalt,
Till it arrive at Heaven's vault;
Which then, perhaps, rebounding, may
Echo beyond the Mexique Bay."
Thus sang they in the English boat,
A holy, and a cheerful note;
And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.
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