Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets, Volume 2 by Gilfillan, George, 1813-1878

It is a creature, born and bred Between the lips, all cherry red; By love and warm desires 'tis fed; _Chor_.--And makes more soft the bridal bed:

2. It is an active flame, that flies First to the babies of the eyes, And charms them there with lullabies; _Chor_.--And stills the bride too when she cries:

2. Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear, It frisks and flies; now here, now there; 'Tis now far off, and then 'tis near; _Chor_.--And here, and there, and everywhere.

1. Has it a speaking virtue?--2. Yes. 1. How speaks it, say?--2. Do you but this, Part your join'd lips, then speaks your kiss; _Chor_.--And this love's sweetest language is.

1. Has it a body?--2. Aye, and wings, With thousand rare encolourings; And, as it flies, it gently sings, _Chor_.--Love honey yields, but never stings.

TO DAFFODILS.

1 Fair daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attain'd his noon: Stay, stay Until the hast'ning day Has run But to the even-song; And, having pray'd together, we Will go with you along!

2 We have short time to stay, as you; We have as short a spring, As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or anything: We die, As your hours do; and dry Away Like to the summer's rain, Or as the pearls of morning dew Ne'er to be found again.

TO PRIMROSES.

1 Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears Speak grief in you, Who are but born Just as the modest morn Teem'd her refreshing dew? Alas! you have not known that shower That mars a flower; Nor felt the unkind Breath of a blasting wind; Nor are ye worn with years; Or warp'd, as we, Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, To speak by tears before ye have a tongue.

2 Speak, whimpering younglings; and make known The reason why Ye droop and weep. Is it for want of sleep, Or childish lullaby? Or that ye have not seen as yet The violet? Or brought a kiss From that sweetheart to this? No, no; this sorrow shown By your tears shed, Would have this lecture read, 'That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.'

TO BLOSSOMS.

1 Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? Your date is not so past, But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile And go at last.

2 What, were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good night? 'Tis pity Nature brought ye forth Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite.

3 But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave: And after they have shown their pride, Like you, awhile, they glide Into the grave.

OBERON'S PALACE.