A 
Yet is not life, in its real flight, 
Mark’d thus — even thus — on earth, 
By the closing of one hope’s delight, 
And another’s gentle birth? 
Oh ! let us live, so that flower by flower, 
Shutting in turn, may leave 
A lingerer still for the sun-set hour, 
A charm for the shaded eve. 
ON FLORA’S HOROLOGE. 
C. SMITH. 
In every copse and shelter’d dell, 
Unveil’d to the observant eye, 
Are faithful monitors, who tell 
How pass the hours and seasons by. 
The green-robed children of the Spring 
Will mark the periods as they pass; 
Mingle with leaves Time’s feather’d wing. 
And bind with flowers his silent glass. 
Mark where transparent waters glide, 
Soft flowing o’er their tranquil bed ; 
There, cradled on the dimpling tide, 
Nymphaea rests her lovely head. 
But, conscious of the earliest beam, 
She rises from her humid nest, 
And sees reflected in the stream 
