Oh! had I nursed when I was young
The lessons of my father’s tongue,
(The deep laborious thoughts he drew
From all he saw, and others knew,)
I might have been,—ah, me!
Thrice sager than I e’er shall be.
For what says Time?
Alas! he only shows the truth
Of all that I was told in youth.
Barry Cornwall.
Crocus. ... Youth.
The Crocus is one of the earliest of the spring flowers, and, therefore, a fit emblem of the spring of life. It is a small flower, of variegated hues; the principal being purple, yellow, and white. The Crocus Vernus, or Spring Crocus, is a wild flower now in various parts of England, though not considered to be really a native of the country. We learn from the favourite writers, Mr. and Mrs. Howitt, that they are plentiful about Nottingham, “gleaming at a distance like a perfect flood of lilac, and tempting very many little hearts, and many graver ones too, to go out and gather.”
Oh! many a glorious flower there grows
In far and richer lands;
But high in my affection e’er
The beautiful Crocus stands.
I love their faces, when by one
And two they’re looking out;
I love them when the spreading field
Is purple all about.
I loved them in the by-gone years
Of childhood’s thoughtless laughter,
When I marvelled why the flowers came first,
And the leaves the season after.
I loved them then, I love them now—
The gentle and the bright;
I love them for the thoughts they bring
Of spring’s returning light;
When, first-born of the waking earth,
Their kindred gay appear,
And, with the Snowdrop, usher in
The hope-invested year.
Louisa A. Twamley.
You’re glad
Because your little tiny nose,
Turns up so pert and funny;
Because I know you choose your beaux
More for their mirth than money;
Because your eyes are deep and blue,—
Your fingers long and rosy;
Because a little maid like you
Would make one’s home so cozy;
Because, I think, (I’m just so weak,)
That some of these fine morrows
You’ll listen while you hear me speak
My story, and my sorrows!
Anon.
Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possest;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast;
Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue;
Wild wit, invention ever new,
And lively cheer of vigour born;
The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly the approach of morn.
Alas, regardless of their doom,
The little victims play!
No sense have they of ills to come,
No care beyond to-day.
Yet see how all around them wait,
The ministers of human fate,
And black misfortune’s baleful train,
Ah! show them where in ambush stand,
To seize their prey, the murderous band!
Ah, tell them they are men!
Gray’s Eton College.