THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.
Fly swift, my light gazelle,
To her who now lies waking,
To hear thy silver bell
The midnight silence breaking.
And, when thou com'st, with gladsome feet,
Beneath her lattice springing,
Ah, well she'll know how sweet
The words of love thou'rt bringing.
Yet, no—not words, for they
But half can tell love's feeling;
Sweet flowers alone can say
What passion fears revealing.
A once bright rose's withered leaf,
A towering lily broken,—
Oh these may paint a grief
No words could e'er have spoken.
Not such, my gay gazelle,
The wreath thou speedest over
Yon moonlight dale, to tell
My lady how I love her.
And, what to her will sweeter be
Than gems the richest, rarest,—
From Truth's immortal tree[1]
One fadeless leaf thou bearest.
[1] The tree called in the East, Amrita, or the Immortal.
THE DAWN IS BREAKING O'ER US.
The dawn is breaking o'er us,
See, heaven hath caught its hue!
We've day's long light before us,
What sport shall we pursue?
The hunt o'er hill and lea?
The sail o'er summer sea?
Oh let not hour so sweet
Unwinged by pleasure fleet.
The dawn is breaking o'er us,
See, heaven hath caught its hue!
We've days long light before us,
What sport shall we pursue?
But see, while we're deciding,
What morning sport to play,
The dial's hand is gliding,
And morn hath past away!
Ah, who'd have thought that noon
Would o'er us steal so soon,—
That morn's sweet hour of prime
Would last so short a time?
But come, we've day before us,
Still heaven looks bright and blue;
Quick, quick, ere eve comes o'er us,
What sport shall we pursue?
Alas! why thus delaying?
We're now at evening's hour;
Its farewell beam is playing
O'er hill and wave and bower.
That light we thought would last,
Behold, even now 'tis past;
And all our morning dreams
Have vanisht with its beams
But come! 'twere vain to borrow
Sad lessons from this lay,
For man will be to-morrow—
Just what he's been to-day.