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EARLY FIELD SCORPION-GRASS.
Waen the mornin sun raise frae its eastern ha’,
And when the nicht clud grew dark o'er the plain, When the stars were out, and the moon on the
wane, When the bird and the bee were gane to rest, And the dews o'the nicht the green earth prest, The bonny wee flower lay smiling asleep, Like a beautifu' pearl in the dark, green leaf.
And as within your hand it glows,
Oh, mark the power Divine,
Like heaven's own blue to shine.
OH! how beautiful is Nature! The grass and flowers grow luxurious; the trees are covered with foliage; millions of points of grass rise up in this field, and to each point hangs a drop of dew. Happy is he whose life passes away in the enjoyment of the beauties of Nature ! The whole creation smiles upon him, and joy attends him wherever he goes, and under whatever shade he reposes. Pleasure springs out of every source, exhales from each flower, and resounds in every grove. His mind is serene as a calm summer's day; his affections are gentle and pure as the perfume of the flowers around him. Happy he, who in the beauties of Nature traces the Creator, and devotes himself wholly to Him !
Trees, plants, cooling fruits, and sweet flowers, All speak to the praise of my God.
The breeze is stopt, the lazy bough
A blade of silver hair-grass nodding slowly,
And in the pleasant grass That smiles around us, fair waving in the breeze, Delicious hues are seen innumerous, As if the raindrops of the fresh wild spring Had blossom'd where they fell.
Who does not look back with feelings, which he would in vain attempt to describe, to the delightful rambles which his native fields and meadows afforded to his earliest years ? Flowers are among the first objects that forcibly attract the attention of young children, becoming to them the source of gratifications which are among the purest of which our nature is capable, and of which even the indistinct recollection imparts often a fleeting pleasure to the most cheerless moments of after life.
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.
In Spring's green lap there blooms a flower,
Still then avoid the gaudy scene,
Miss C. SYMMONS.
[This promising writer died in the twelfth year of her age.]