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"Alas for thy fate! thou must suffer, poor tree,
For standing when others were bending the knee.
Thou'rt doomed for thy fault an atonement to pay :
Henceforth be a rush for the wild winds to sway.
Sigh, sport of their fury, and slave of their will!
Bow, e'en in a calm, when all others are still !
And shivering, quivering, droop evermore,

Because thou wouldst not with thy brothers adore.'

"The weak aspen trembled, turned pale with dismay,
And is pallid with terror and grief to this day.
Each tremulous leaf of the penitent tree

Obeys to this moment the heavenly decree.

'Tis the sport of the wild winds, the slave of their will,
E'en without a breeze bends, when all others stand still;
And full of emotion, its fault doth deplore,
Sigh, shiver, and quiver, and droop evermore."

THE ASPEN-TREE.

CHARLES SWAIN.

WHY tremblest thou, Aspen? no storm threatens nigh;
Not a cloud mars the peace of the love-beaming sky;
'Tis the spring of thy being-no autumn is near
Thy green boughs to wither, thy sweet leaves to sear!
The sun, like a crown, o'er thy young head shines free,
Then wherefore thus troubled? what fearest thou, fair
tree?

I have watched through the mildest, the stillest of hours,
When Nature slept soft on her pillow of flowers;
When, though all things appeared 'neath her influence
blest,

Thou alone wert disturbed, thou alone couldst not rest!
But still, as lamenting some dreadful decree,

Thou groanedst in the calm, like an outcast, lone tree!

A voice from its leaves seemed to wail on mine ear, "List, mortal; attend the dark source of my fear; Ah, learn the dread hour when we sank 'neath rebuke, And our boughs, as if grasped by a hurricane, shook! When the morn rose in blood, when the dead wept around,

And a curse 'gainst our seed burst in woe from the ground!—

"The Cross, amidst lightning on Calvary stained,

Was made from our roots; there His blood hath remained!

Creation, accursing, in misery spoke,

And a shudder eternal then first o'er us broke!

From the serpent were named, the last doomed to betray ! Oh! no rest for the Aspen till earth fades away!"

R

CORNFLOWER.

(Delicacy.)

"Now, gentle flower, I pray thee tell

If my lover loves me, and loves me well."

ANONYMOUS.

|HE classic name of the bright blue Cornflower is

Cyanus; and it was so named after a worshipper

of Flora, who made garlands for public festivities out of various sorts of wild flowers, and who lingered from inorn till eve amid the corn weaving the blossoms that she had collected. Its petals are used for divination, as the thistle-down is.

This flower, although now so common in our cornfields, is thought not to be indigenous, but to have been brought from the East amongst some imported grain.

Its deep blue hue is so deep that it almost approaches a purple, and as such the poet addresses it :

"There is a flower, a purple flower,

Sown by the wind, nursed by the shower,
O'er which Love breathed a powerful spell,
The truth of whispering hope to tell.
Now, gentle flower, I pray tlice tell
If my lover loves me, and loves me well:
So may the fall of the morning dew

Keep the sun from fading thy tender blue."

FIELD FLOWERS.

CAMPBELL.

YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true,
Yet, wildlings of nature, I dote upon you;

For ye waft me to summers of old,

When the earth teemed around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold.

I love you for lulling me back into dreams,
Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams,
And of birchen glades breathing their balm;
While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote,
And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note
Made music that sweetened the calm.

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune
Than ye speak to my heart, little wildlings of June ;
Of old ruinous castles ye tell:

I thought it delightful your beauties to find

When the magic of nature first breathed on my mind, And your blossoms were part of her spell.

Even now what affections the violet awakes!
What loved little islands, twice seen in her lakes,
Can the wild water-lily restore.

What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks,
What pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks,
In the vetches that tangle the shore !

Earth's cultureless buds! to my heart ye were dear Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear,

Had scathed my existence's bloom;

Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, With the visions of youth to revisit my age,

And I wish you to grow on my tomb.

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