TULIP, Yellow. 



(Continued.) 



\ The music of thy voice I heard, 

 Nor wist while it enslav'd me; 

 I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, 

 Till fears no more had saved me. . 



Burns. 



By day or night, in weal or wo, 



This heart no longer free, 

 Must bear the love it cannot show, 



And silent ache for thee Byron. 



t- 

 Successful love may sate itself away, 



The wretched are the faithful; 'tis their fate 



To have all feeling, save the one, decay, 



And every passion into one dilate, 



As rapid rivers into ocean pour. \ same. 



The pain I bear, 

 No thought can figure, and no tongue declare. Prior. 



I cannot, nay, I wish not to be cured. . . . Dryden. 



Answer. 



This love that thou hast shown, 



Doth add more grief, to too much of mine own. 



Shaks. 



Thy piercing griefs, 

 Bewailing thus the miseries of thy fate, 

 Strike deep ; they wound me to the very soul. 



JEachylus" 1 Agamemnon. 



Those tears may tell thee while they start, 



How all thy griefs endear thee. Song by W. Smyth. 



TULIP TREE, Blossom. Rural happiness. 

 Liriodendron tulipifera. 



What happiness the rural maid attends, 

 In cheerful labour while each day she spends ! 

 She gratefully receives what Heaven has sent, 

 And, rich in poverty, enjoys content. 



* * * * 



She never feels the spleen's imagin'd pains, 

 Nor melancholy stagnates in her veins ; 

 She never loses life in thoughtless ease, 

 Nor on the velvet couch invites disease; 

 Her home-spun dress in simple neatness lies, 

 And for no glaring equipage she sighs : 

 * * * * 



No midnight masquerade her beauty wears, 

 And health, not paint, the fading bloom repairs. 



The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns ; 

 The low'ring eye, the petulance, the frown, 

 And sullen sadness, that o'ershade, distort, 

 And mar the face of beauty, when no cause 



Gay. 



