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GENTIAN.

(I love you best when you are sad.)

TO THE GENTIAN.

BRYANT.

HOU blossom bright with autumn dew,
And coloured with the heaven's own blue,
That openest when the quiet light

Succeeds the keen and frosty night.

Thou comest not when violets lean
O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple dressed,
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.

Thou waitest late and comest alone,
When woods are bare and birds are flown,
And frosts and shortening days portend
The aged year is near his end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue-blue-as if that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.

I would that thus, when I shall see
The hour of death draw near to me,
Hope blossoming within my heart,
May look to heaven as I depart.

them :

SWEET PEAS.

(Delicate Pleasures.)

T is singular that few of our poets have celebrated these exquisite flowers. We know only these pretty lines of Keats, which exactly portray

"Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight;
With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white,
And taper fingers catching at all things,
To bind them all about with tiny rings."

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"When the ivy of friendship is green in our souls.” Dickens assumes the same meaning.

THE IVY GREEN.

C. DICKENS.

OH, a dainty plant is the ivy green,

That creepeth o'er ruins old;

Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,

In his cell so lone and cold.

The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed,

To pleasure his dainty whim;

And the mouldering dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,

A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a staunch old heart has he :

How closely he twineth, how tight he clings
To his friend, the huge oak-tree !

And slily he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,

And he joyously twines and hugs around
The rich mould of dead men's graves.
Creeping where no life is seen,

A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,

And nations scattered been,

But the stout old ivy shall never fade,
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days
Shall fatten upon the past,

For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the ivy's food at last.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

IVY.

CALDER CAMPBELL.

OH, falsely they accuse me,
Who say I seek to check
The growing sapling's flourishing;-

I better love to deck

The dead and dying branches

With all my living leaves,

'Tis for the old and withered tree

The Ivy garlands weaves.

GROUND IVY.

AND there upon the sod below
Ground Ivy's purple blossoms show,
Like helmet of crusader knight

In anther's cross-like form of white.

THE IVY IN THE DUNGEON.

CHARLES MACKAY.

THE Ivy in a dungeon grew,
Unfed by rain, uncheered by dew;
Its pallid leaflets only drank

Cave moistures foul, and odours rank.

But through the dungeon-grating high
There fell a sunbeam from the sky;
It slept upon the grateful floor,
In silent gladness evermore.

The Ivy felt a tremor shoot
Through all its fibres to the root:
It felt the light, it saw the ray,
It strove to blossom into day.

It grew, it crept, it pushed, it clomb—
Long had the darkness been its home,
But well it knew, though veiled in night,
The goodness and the joy of light.

Its clinging roots grew deep and strong; Its stem expanded firm and long;

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