Secure from evil eyes and hands Rest, Mother-bird! and when thy young Think how ye prospered, thou and thine, Housed near the growing Primrose-tuft, 1833. XXVIII. LOVE-LIES-BLEEDING. You call it," Love-lies-bleeding," so you may, Though the red Flower, not prostrate, only droops, As we have seen it here from day to day, So drooped Adonis bathed in sanguine dew Rent, weeping over him, her golden hair, Did press this semblance of unpitied smart Into the service of his constant heart, His own dejection, downcast Flower! could share With thine, and gave the mournful name which thou wilt ever bear. XXIX. COMPANION TO THE FOREGOING. NEVER enlivened with the liveliest ray When her coevals each and all are fled, What keeps her thus reclined upon her lonesome bed? The old mythologists, more impressed than we Of this late day by character in tree Or herb, that claimed peculiar sympathy, Or by the silent lapse of fountain clear, Or with the language of the viewless air By bird or beast made vocal, sought a cause To solve the mystery, not in Nature's laws, But in Man's fortunes. Hence a thousand tales Sung to the plaintive lyre in Grecian vales. Nor doubt that something of their spirit swayed The fancy-stricken Youth or heart-sick Maid, Who, while each stood companionless, and eyed This undeparting Flower in crimson dyed, Thought of a wound which death is slow to cure, A fate that has endured and will endure, And, patience coveting yet passion feeding, Called the dejected Lingerer, Love-lies-Bleeding. XXX. RURAL ILLUSIONS. SYLPH was it? or a Bird more bright Than those of fabulous stock? A second darted by ; — and lo! Another of the flock, Through sunshine flitting from the bough To nestle in the rock. Of April's mimicries! Those brilliant strangers, hailed with joy Proved last year's leaves, pushed from the To frolic on the breeze. Maternal Flora! show thy face, And let thy hand be seen, Thy hand here sprinkling tiny flowers, In honor of their Queen. Yet, sooth, those little starry specks, To be confounded with live growths, Not such the World's illusive shows; Her wingless flutterings, spray Her blossoms, which, though shed, outbrave The floweret as it springs, For the undeceived, smile as they may, Are melancholy things: But gentle Nature plays her part With ever-varying wiles, And transient feignings with plain truth That those fond Idlers most are pleased 1832. XXXI. THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES. THAT way look, my Infant, lo! See the Kitten on the wall, Sporting with the leaves that fall, Withered leaves,-one, two, and three,— From the lofty elder-tree! Through the calm and frosty air Of this morning bright and fair, In his wavering parachute. But the Kitten, how she starts, Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts! |