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Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 68, No 420, October 1850

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Год написания книги
2017
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THE SWEET BRIAR

I

The Sweet Briar flowering,
With boughs embowering,
Beside the willow-tufted stream,
In its soft, red bloom,
And its wild perfume,
Brings back the past like a sunny dream!

II

Methinks, in childhood,
Beside the wildwood
I lie, and listen the blackbird's song,
Mid the evening calm,
As the Sweet Briar's balm
On the gentle west wind breathes along —

III

To speak of meadows,
And palm-tree shadows,
And bee-hive cones, and a thymy hill,
And greenwood mazes,
And greensward daisies,
And a foamy stream, and a clacking mill.

IV

Still the heart rejoices,
At the happy voices
Of children, singing amid their play;
While swallows twittering,
And waters glittering,
Make earth an Eden at close of day.

V

In sequestered places,
Departed faces,
Return and smile as of yore they smiled;
When, with trifles blest,
Each buoyant breast
Held the trusting heart of a little child.

VI

The future never
Again can ever
The perished gifts of the past restore,
Nor, to thee or me,
Can the wild flowers be
What the Briar was then – oh never more!

THE WALL-FLOWER

I

The Wall-flower – the Wall-flower,
How beautiful it blooms!
It gleams above the ruined tower,
Like sunlight over tombs;
It sheds a halo of repose
Around the wrecks of time.
To beauty give the flaunting rose,
The Wall-flower is sublime.

II

Flower of the solitary place!
Gray ruin's golden crown,
That lendest melancholy grace
To haunts of old renown;
Thou mantlest o'er the battlement,
By strife or storm decayed;
And fillest up each envious rent
Time's canker-tooth hath made.

III

Thy roots outspread the ramparts o'er,
Where, in war's stormy day,
Percy or Douglas ranged of yore
Their ranks in grim array;
The clangour of the field is fled,
The beacon on the hill
No more through midnight blazes red,
But thou art blooming still!

IV

Whither hath fled the choral band
That filled the Abbey's nave?
Yon dark sepulchral yew-trees stand
O'er many a level grave.
In the belfry's crevices, the dove
Her young brood nurseth well,
While thou, lone flower! dost shed above
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