A FIELD-FLOWER.

Unknown the region of his birth, The land in which he died unknown:

MAS-DAY, 1803.

THERE is a flower, a little flower, With silver crest and golden eye, That welcomes every changing hour, And weathers every sky.

The prouder beauties of the field
In gay but quick succession shine,
Race after race their honours yield,
They flourish and decline.

But this small flower, to Nature dear, While moons and stars their courses run, Wreathes the whole circle of the year, Companion of the sun.

It smiles upon the lap of May,
To sultry August spreads its charms,
Lights pale October on his way,
And twines December's arms.

The purple heath and golden broom, On moory mountains catch the gale, O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume, The violet in the vale.

But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.

Within the garden's cultured round It shares the sweet carnation's bed; And blooms on consecrated, ground In honour of the dead.

The lambkin crops its crimson gem, The wild-bee murmurs on its breast, The blue-fly bends its pensile stem, Light o'er the sky-lark's nest.

"Tis Flora's page:--in every place,
In every season fresh and fair,
It opens with perennial grace,
And blossoms every where.

On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise;
The Rose has but a summer-reign,
The DAISY never dies.

THE COMMON LOT.

ONCE in the flight of ages past,
There lived a man:-and WHO was HE?
-Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast,
That Man resembled Thee.

This truth survives alone:

That joy, and grief, and hope and fear,
Alternate triumph'd in his breast;
His bliss and woe,-a smile, a tear!
-Oblivion hides the rest.

The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirits' rise and fall;
We know that these were felt by him,
For these are felt by all.

He suffer'd, but his pangs are o'er;
Enjoy'd, but his delights are fled;
Had friends,-his friends are now no more;
And foes, his foes are dead.

He loved, but whom he loved, the grave
Hath lost in its unconscious womb:
O she was fair!—but nought could save
Her beauty from the tomb.

He saw whatever thou hast seen; Encounter'd all that troubles thee: He was whatever thou hast been; He is what thou shalt be.

The rolling seasons, day and night,
Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main,
Erewhile his portion, life and light,
To him exist in vain.

The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye
That once their shades and glory threw,
Have left in yonder silent sky
No vestige where they flew.

The annals of the human race,
Their ruins, since the world began,
Of HIM afford no other trace
Than this,-THERE LIVED A MAN!

THE OLD MAN'S SONG.

SHALL Man of frail fruition boast?
Shall life be counted dear,
Oft but a moment, and, at most,
A momentary year?

There was a time,-that time is past,When, Youth! I bloom'd like thee; A time will come,-'tis coming fast, When thou shalt fade like me :

Like me through varying seasons range,
And past enjoyments mourn;-
The fairest, sweetest Spring shall change
To Winter in its turn.