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THE LIBRARY 
 
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 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 I'Irs. Ear tie tt B. Heard 
 
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 llfice oFt'ie Dull uc Co. 
 
 
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 NEW YORK 
 LAMPORT, BLAKEMAN & LAW. 
 
 N9 S.Park riace. 
 
F L OE A'S GEM; 
 
 OR THE 
 
 9 
 
 FOR 
 
 ALL SEASONS 
 
 BEAUTIFULLY EMBELLISHED 
 
 EDITED BY 
 ALFRED A . PHILIPS 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 PUBLISHED BY LAMPORT, BLAKEMAN & LAW, 
 
 No. 8 PARK PLACE. 
 
LOAN STAC^ 
 
p/\/£ 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 THE FAIRIE'S SEARCH 
 
 Mrs. Emelip^e Smitb 
 
 .9 
 
 1"0 ********* 
 
 A. A. P. 
 
 41 
 
 THE MOSS ROSE. . ... 
 
 B. J. LOSSI.NG. . 
 
 . 42 
 
 THE TEA ROSE 
 
 Mr.s. H. E. Beechee Stone. 43 
 
 THE ROSE. ... 
 
 L. E. L. . 
 
 . 51 
 
 THE YOUNG ROSE 
 
 
 ib 
 
 ROSE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 
 . 52 
 
 THE ROSE OF MAY 
 
 Mary Howrrr. 
 
 53 
 
 THE LILY AND THE ROSE. 
 
 COWPER. . 
 
 . 56 
 
 THE PRETTY ROSE TREE 
 
 . 
 
 58 
 
 THE CHILD AND THE ROSE. 
 
 Mrs. Seba Smith. 
 
 . 59 
 
 THE TULIP. . : 
 
 B. J. LOSSING. 
 
 61 
 
 ON PLANTING A TULIP ROOT. . 
 
 J. M. . 
 
 . 66 
 
 TO THE CACTUS SPECIOSISSIMUS. . 
 
 Mrs. Sigourney. 
 
 . 68 
 
 THE HYACINTH 
 
 From the Gee.man o 
 
 F Krujlmaciier. 70 
 
 THE SPRIG OF WINTERGREEN. 
 
 C. F. Hoffma.n. 
 
 . 73 
 
 THE BLUE BELL 
 
 R. T. . 
 
 . 74 
 
 FLOWERS 
 
 A. M. M. . 
 
 76 
 
 FLOWERS AND FAIRIES 
 
 Kate. . 
 
 . 77 
 
 THE AIYRTLE 
 
 Mo.ntgomery. 
 
 . 80 
 
 THE WATER-LILY 
 
 Mrs. Hemajjs. . 
 
 . 82 
 
 THE LILY OF THE VALLEY 
 
 George Croly. 
 
 84 
 
 THE SNOWDROP 
 
 L. E. L. . 
 
 . 85 
 
 THE NIGHT-SHADE 
 
 Barry Cornwall. 
 
 . 87 
 
 COWSLIPS • 
 
 Howirr. . 
 
 . 88 
 
 GOSSIP WITH A BOUQUET OF SPRING FLOWERS 
 
 L. H. Sigour.ney. 
 
 . 90 
 
 THE VASE OF FLOWERS. . . ■ . 
 
 Ianthe. . 
 
 . 94 
 
 FLOWERS 
 
 
 . 95 
 
 WILD ORANGE GROVES 
 
 
 . 96 
 
 FLOWERS . . 
 
 J. B. P. 
 
 . 97 
 
 THE SUN FLOWER 
 
 M. 
 
 . 98 
 
 TO THE HAREBELL 
 
 
 99 
 
 THE CHINA STAR. 
 
 E. C. S. . 
 
 .100 
 
 TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER 
 
 E. Elliott. . 
 
 . 102 
 
 VIOLETS . • 
 
 L. E. L. 
 
 .104 
 
 C89 
 
EMBELLISHMENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ROSES, - ........ Fiontispiecr 
 
 THE FAIRY'S BOWER, ' - - 9 
 
 BENGAL ROSES, 43 
 
 TULIPS, - - . .... . - 61 
 
 MORNING GLORY AND PEONY, 68 
 
 FLEMISH PINK, - - - ' Tg" 
 
 MALLOW, 85 
 
 ROSE, NARCISSUS, OLICANDER AND SWEET-SMELLING PEA, - - 94 
 
 PURPLE BENGAL ROSE AND CHINA STAR, 100 
 
 WHITE ALTHEA, CHIMNEY CAMPANULA, INDIA SENECIO. - - - 102 
 
PREFACE 
 
 Who is there that loves not flowers ? Who is there that can look upon 
 these gems of nature, inhale their fragrance, and not feel his heart expand, 
 and his soul quicken with pleasing emoiions ? If there be such an one, un- 
 bending indeed must be his nature, cold his affections, and we feel inclined to 
 place him among those of whom the immortal bard of Avon has said — having 
 no music in their souls — " are fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils." 
 
 Flowers have ever been emblems of the impulses and feelings of the heart, 
 as well as symbols of the affections, passions and sorrows of the soul. They 
 
 " are love's truest language ; they betray 
 
 Like the divining rods of Magi old 
 
 Where priceless wealth lies buried, not of gold, 
 
 But love — strong love, that never can decay !" 
 
 They speak of love in tones more eloquent and winning than the choicest 
 phrases or the roundest periods. Who does not know that the Rose is the 
 flowers of Venus, the flower of love ? Who does not know that when that 
 fragrant, blushing symbol, a Hose Bud, is placed in the hand of the fair one 
 who has ensnared the heart of the donor, it whispers 
 
 " I die for thy sweet love, the ground 
 Not panteth for the Summer rain, 
 As I for one soft look of thine .'" 
 
 The tale of love thus sweetly told, has won the heart it sought ; the " layde 
 faire" places the beauteous missive upon her snowy breast, from her garden 
 culls a messenger which blushingly tells the enraptured lover, " your senti- 
 ments meet with a return," and a China Star bears to his delighted gaze the 
 reply of his mistress — 
 
 " Yes I am thine ! Upon thy bosom leaning, 
 No grief hath power to damp my fervent bliss 
 Nor can such love to thee be overwheening — 
 Thou art deserving all, and more than this !" 
 
It is probable that a distinct language, was first given to flowers by the 
 women of the East, arising doubtless from their strict seclusion and ignorance 
 of writing, combined with a vivid imagination which habitually personifies 
 every object. It is true that by these flowers they can convey only general 
 ideas, such as " I love thee dearly ;" " Thy coldness grieves me ;" « Tsym- 
 pathise in thy distress ;" &c., but their dull unwearied round of life leaves but 
 little else to impart. 
 
 The Bouquet which is used as an epistle is called Selam. 
 
 This language is also local and arbitrary, so that a Bouquet which would 
 be readily interpreted by a Persian maiden, would be unintelligible to a Turk- 
 ish female. A celebrated traveller thus describes the manner in which a 
 Turkish lady of fashion is wooed by an invisible lover. " In the progress of 
 the courtship, a Hyacinth is occasionally dropped in her path by an unknown 
 hand, and the female attendant at the bath does the office of a Mercury, and 
 talks of a certain effendi seeking a lady's love, as a Nightingale aspiring to the 
 affections of a Rose." 
 
 All nations and ages have regarded these beauties of nature with pleasure 
 and reverence ; the Romans and Greeks acknowledged a goddess who pre- 
 sided over flowers and blossoms, whose festivals were Celebrated with pomp 
 and rejoicings. In more modern days, flowers have been cultivated from a 
 love of the beautiful and a taste for refinement, while at the same time, a 
 vocabulary has been established which ascribes to each class, a sentiment or a 
 moral. The Dahlia denotes elegance and dignity ; the Daisy, beauty and 
 innocence ; the Haiothorn, hope ; the White Lily, purity ; the Lily of the 
 Valley, the heart withering in secret ; Malloios, a sweet disposition ; the 
 Nightshade, dark thoughts ; Orange Flowers, woman's worth ; the Peony, 
 ostentation ; a Rose Bud, a confession of love ; the Tulip, beautiful eyes ; the 
 Violet, faithfulness ; the Water Lily, eloquence ; and so to each flower is 
 allotted a distinct signification. 
 
 The mind instinctively associates some meaning according to the appeal - 
 ance or fragrance of the flower, forming a natural, but impressive language, 
 which speaks to the heart rather than to the ear. Can any thing more touch- 
 mgly convey the idea of purity, than the beautiful White Lily ? Look into 
 its snow-white cavity ! inhale its delicious fragrance, and nothing but the 
 sweetest, holiest emotions will be awakened. 
 
 " Ask me not why I should love her ; 
 Look upon these soul-iull eyes ! 
 
PREFACE. VU 
 
 Look while mirth or feeling move her, 
 
 And see there how sweetly rise 
 Thoughts gay and gentle from a breast, 
 Which is of innocence the nest — 
 Which, though each joy were from it fied. 
 By truth would still be tenanted !" 
 
 In gazing upon flowers, the old and the young, the grave and the gay, are 
 furnished with objects of sympathy calculated to awaken the tenderest 
 affections of the heart. To the aged, the glowing colors of the Amarinth 
 speak of immortality ; to the young, the White Pink exhibits true and pure 
 affection ; to the grave and serious, the Balm speaks of social intercourse ; 
 and the Coreopsis bids the gay be always cheerful ; so that every disposition 
 and mood finds pleasure and instruction amid the beauties with which Provi- 
 dence has blessed the Earth to delight our eyes and incite us to purity of 
 thought and action. 
 
 We have culled from nature's gay parterre some of her glorious gems, and 
 arranging them by the hand of art, present our " BOUQUET" as an imita- 
 tion of the beauties with which we are delighted only during a brief season 
 of the year, so that when the chilly blasts of Winter deprive us of their 
 dewy fragrance, we may still gaze with pleasure upon them as in a mirror, 
 and cheat our senses into a dream of their reality. 
 
 We have endeavoured to illustrate the flowers we have thus " transferred," 
 by lessons and precepts instructive and entertaining, and while we have 
 sought the aid of talent and genius of our own day and presented original 
 productions procured expressly for this work, we have also incorporated 
 selections from standard poets, which notwithstanding they have already 
 appeared before the public, we trust will* be found to possess a sufficient merit 
 to appear again and be the more highly appreciated when thus illustrated by 
 the hand of art. 
 
 " THE BOUQUET" is before yuu fair reader ; there is many a lesson ana 
 many a moral to be found within its pages, and if in it you can find where- 
 with to cheer an hour of sadness, and rise after a perusal with ennobled and 
 grateful feelings towards a " '.nd Providence, our end has been attained. 
 
 A. A. P. 
 
 New York, August 1846. 
 
TO THE LADIES. 
 
 THE F A 1 K E S r F L (J W E R S OP CREATION, 
 
 THIS V O L U M E 
 
 ILLUSTKATING THE KI.OWKKS OF NATURE'S GARDEN 
 
 IS KESPECTFULLY DEDICATED 
 
 BY THEIR DEVOTED A D M 1 R E R 
 
 THE EDITOR 
 
THE BOUQUET. 
 
 THE FAIRY'S SEARCH. 
 
 BY MRS. EMELINE S. SMITH. 
 
 The fragrant shade of a rose-clad bower 
 
 Was a Fairy's chosen home, 
 
 Where she gaily passed each summer hour 
 
 With never a wish to roam; 
 
 Her chief delight was to watch with care 
 
 Each beautiful bud unfolding there. 
 
 And to guard, from every blighting spell. 
 
 The blossoms that she loved so well. 
 
 Her presence was a magic charm 
 
 That banished every power of harm ; 
 
 No wandering footstep dare intrude 
 
 To mar that pleasant solitude ; 
 
 No mortal hand could pluck a flower 
 
 That bloomed in that enchanted bower ; 
 
 No evil influence could appear 
 
 While she, the guardian, lingered near. 
 
 But needful, as the breath of Spring 
 
10 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 Is to the Violet's blossoming, 
 Was her protecting power. 
 
 Alas ! the Fay, 
 One tranquil night, was lured aAvay 
 From that sweet home. A merry band 
 Of sister Fairies, hand in hand, 
 Came dancing to her rosy bower 
 And tempted her, in evil hour, 
 To hie afar to a silvery stream 
 To revel and sport 'neath the moon's bright beam, 
 
 'Twas such an eve as Fairies love — 
 All cloudless smiled the heaven above, 
 And gentle zephyrs wandered by 
 With the witching tone of a lover's sigh, 
 Or paused awhile, in their wayward flight. 
 To kiss some flower of brightest bloom 
 Which received the caress in mute delight 
 Then paid it back in a breath of perfume. 
 The minstrel night-bird's plaintive song 
 So sweetly broke o'er dewy plains 
 That echo kept the music long 
 Then sent it forth in softer strains ; 
 So calm the sleeping waters lay. 
 So true they mirror'd back the glow 
 Of sky and moon and starry ra}', 
 There seem'd another heaven beh.'>. 
 As pure, as fair, as full of love 
 As the blue boundless heaven above. 
 And Nature was as perfect, then, 
 In that hush'd, holy evening hour. 
 And stainless, as she e'er had been 
 When first the Great Creative Power 
 
THE FAIRY'S SEARCH . ]l 
 
 Called all her magic charms to birth 
 And made a paradise of Earth. 
 
 'Mid scene thus fair, the sportive Fay 
 
 Forgot her treasures far away, 
 
 And lingered late, and listened long 
 
 To pleasure's soft beguiling song, 
 
 Until its witching cadence stole 
 
 Like fascination o'er her soul. 
 
 She woke as dreamers oft-times wake 
 
 From some dear vision of delight. 
 
 When morn's intruding footsteps break 
 
 The airy structures of the night; 
 
 She woke from rapture's tli rilling charnt 
 
 To thoughts of care and fears of harm. 
 
 With sad forebodings for her bower. 
 
 Neglected since the t^^ iliglit hour. 
 
 She left the Fairies magic ring 
 
 And, like a bird on tireless wing, 
 
 Flew fast a^^ay — but morning's eye 
 
 Looked brightly o'er the eastern sky 
 
 Ere she regain'd her home. Ah ! tlieiu 
 
 How sadly chang'd appear'd the scene I 
 
 How dark, hou desolate and lone. 
 
 Like some deserted garden bound 
 
 Where Autumn ^^inds, in mournful tone, 
 
 Wail o'er the w ither'd leaflets strown 
 
 In saddest ruin round. 
 
 Some daring hand had stripp'd the bower 
 
 Of every beauteous bud and flower 
 
 And borne them all away. 
 
 Far oif, amid the busy crowd 
 
 Of a throng'd cily, now they smil'd, 
 
12 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 And pleas'd the happy and the proud, 
 Or solaced sorrow's child. 
 
 As storm-clouds pass o'er summer skies, 
 
 Dimming their gay and brilliant dies, 
 
 So pass'd the gloomy shade of woe 
 
 Across the Fairy's radiant brow. 
 
 The while she gazed, in mute despair, 
 
 Around the dwelling once so fair ; 
 
 Awhile she mus'd ; awhile she mourn d 
 
 Upon the wreck and ruin near her ; 
 
 But soon, Uke dawning light, return'd 
 
 Hope's gentle smile to cheer her. 
 
 And she resolv'd, despite the pain 
 
 Or peril such attempt might cost. 
 
 To roam thro' many a varied scene 
 
 In search of the sweet flowers she'd lost. 
 
 Then, quick as thought, she plum'd her wmg 
 
 And, like a rosy cloud of even 
 
 Floating upon the breath of Spring, 
 
 Rose gracefully to the blue Heaven 
 
 And soar'd away. Onward she flew, 
 
 O'er hill and vale and streamlet blue, 
 
 Nor paus'd until she spied afar. 
 
 Soft gleaming thro' the lucid air. 
 
 The city's towers and temples fair. 
 
 With joy she hails the welcome sight 
 
 And, wearied with her rapid flight. 
 
 She gladly gains a lofty tower 
 
 And folds the drooping wing, whose power. 
 
 Is for a season lost. With timid mein 
 
 She looks upon the wildering scene 
 
 That meets her eye below. 
 
THE FAIRY'S SEARCH. ^3 
 
 A motley crowd, a mingled throng 
 Moves slowly by, or sweeps along 
 Like clouds when wild-winds blow. 
 Misfortune's child, with pallid face. 
 And wasted form and weary pace. 
 Moves on beside the rich and great. 
 Whose happier brows and haughtier state 
 In mournful contrast shine. 
 Old age with furrow'd brow, and eye 
 Dim with the shadowy mist of Time ; 
 Youth, radiant as the cloudless sky 
 Of Sumn^.er in its prime ; 
 And sportive childhood, fresh and gay 
 As blossoms in the morning's beam, 
 All mingle in that crowded way 
 Like beiugs of a dream. 
 
 Long gaz'd the Fay, with wondering eye. 
 And half forgot the flowers she souglit 
 'Til a soft breeze that wander'd by 
 Their well known perfume brought : 
 And now she sees a radiant throng 
 Of youths and maidens sweep along. 
 Their forms are deck'd in raiment bright ; 
 Their brows are beaming with delight ; 
 Their footsteps move to joyous measure ; 
 Their hearts are tuned to notes of pleasure--- 
 So gay their smiles, so pure their mirth, 
 They seem not children of the Earth, 
 But brighter, happier spirits, come 
 From some far-off, celestial home. 
 Some realm where mpture reigns supreme 
 And life i.-; all one blissful dream, 
 
14 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 They dwell, in truth, in such a sphere — 
 Youth's fairy land ! — Ah, never fear 
 Or care or sorrow's hand 
 Can touch the dwellers of that clime ; 
 Secure in pleasure's spells they stand, 
 Defying all save Time ! 
 
 The gay ones pause beside the church ; 
 
 Each bows a reverent head 
 
 And passes neath the lofty arch 
 
 With slow and solemn tread. 
 
 With folded wing and noiseless pace 
 
 The Fay, too, seeks that worship-place, 
 
 Enters, and marks with mute surprise 
 
 The holy scene that meets her eyes. 
 
 Before the sacred altar stand 
 
 A noble youth and gentle maid ; — 
 
 Eye meeting eye, and hand in hand. 
 
 And truth on either brow displayed. 
 
 They seem, by Heaven, design'd to move 
 
 Together o'er life's rugged Avay, 
 
 That clouded path which w^edded love 
 
 Can render radiant as the day. 
 
 Fair was the bride ; — youth's holy charm 
 
 Lent all its witchery to her form ; 
 
 And beauty's deepest spell was seen 
 
 In down-cast eye and modest mein. 
 
 A graceful robe of stainless white 
 
 Fell round her, as the moon's soft light 
 
 Falls o'er the Earth in cloudless night. 
 
 A floating veil of silvery hue 
 
 Whose folds, her brow look'd lovelier tliroug 
 
 Hnn!'-, liU{^ (lie niist on iDOiiiitaia side. 
 
THE FAIRY'S SEARCH. 15 
 
 And heighten'd charms it sought to hide. 
 
 A cluster of white Roses lay 
 
 Upon her bosom's snowy vest, 
 
 And well the graceful things became 
 
 Their beauteous place of rest. 
 
 In truth it was a holy sight 
 To see that youthful maiden there, 
 With heart so fond and hopes so bright, 
 With form and soul alike so fair, 
 Breathing in accents, firm though low, 
 Affection's sweetest, holiest vow. 
 Ah ! wedlock is a hallow'd ray 
 That cheers us on our pilgrim way ; 
 That adds to bliss a brighter beam 
 And softens even sorroAv's dream. 
 That sacred fetter of the heart 
 Is dear in Hymen's early hours. 
 When Earth still wears its Eden-liglif 
 And life is yet a feast of flowers ; 
 But better, loftier, holier far 
 Is the fond tie in later years. 
 When it becomes the changeless star 
 That guides us thro' " a vale of tears." 
 Then, like the rain-bow's brilliant dye's 
 It brightens e'en the stormiest skies. 
 
 The vows are said ; the twain are one ; 
 
 The bridal band' has turn'd away ; — 
 
 Like some bright dream, when sleep is gone, 
 
 Fades now the vision gay. 
 
 The Fairy, who, with tearful eye, 
 
 Had mark'd the solemn rite^, 
 
16 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 Turns from the scene, with gentle sigh, 
 
 Thus musing on the flow'rets bright 
 
 That deck'd the beautious bride ; 
 
 " So lovingly they seem'd to rest 
 
 " Upon her fair and sinless breast, 
 
 " I could not take them thence — ah ! there, 
 
 *' More bright than in my bower they were ; 
 
 " Methought they look'd as born to grace 
 
 " Her radiant form and blooming face — 
 
 " The gentle sunhght of her eye 
 
 " Beam'd o'er them like the genial sky 
 
 " And seem'd their native ray ; 
 
 *' Her balmy sighs play'd round their leaves, 
 
 " As, in the hush of summer eves, 
 
 " The whispering south winds play ; 
 
 " And from her glowing cheek they won 
 
 " A hue, like that the setting Sun 
 
 •' Sheds o'er the smiling Earth : — 
 
 " 'Twas well to deck that lovely bride 
 
 " With my sweet flowers ; for thus allied 
 
 *' To beauty, purity and worth, 
 
 *' They seem'd, indeed, like gifts divine, 
 
 " Plac'd on a fair and fitting shrine 
 
 " As offerings to Heaven." 
 
 The musing Fay 
 Now plum'd her wing and soar'd away. 
 As on she flew, hope's witching strain 
 Awakened pleasant thoughts again, 
 And bade her seek in other scenes 
 The treasures of her bower. 
 She paus'd within a narrow street 
 Where day's bright smile but faintly fell ; 
 Where Heaven's pure air could rarely gre«'» 
 
THE FAIRY'S SEARCH. 17 
 
 The pallid beings doom'd to dwell 
 
 "Within the gloomy bound. — Ah ! they 
 
 Who gladly hail each new-born day 
 
 From some sweet home on hill or plain, 
 
 Who rove at will by pleasant streams, 
 
 Know little of the weary pain, 
 
 The moody thoughts and feverish dreams 
 
 Of those whose artificial life 
 
 Is pass'd 'mid busy care and strife ; 
 
 Who toil, from murky morn to night, 
 
 In darken'd shops or gloomy lanes, 
 
 Scarce knowing whether Summer's light 
 
 Or Winter's darkness reigns. 
 
 They ne'er can feel the pulse and heart 
 
 To rapture's thrilling measure start 
 
 In Nature's genial hours ; 
 
 They ne'er can feel Spring's balmy air 
 
 Float round them, with its perfume rare 
 
 And joy-bestowing powers ; 
 
 To them the ever-varying year, 
 
 With all its changes that beguile. 
 
 Presents one aspect dull and drear. 
 
 One face without a smile. 
 
 The w andering Fairy staid her flight 
 Near a low dweUing — with a light 
 And noiseless tread she trac'd her way 
 O'er creaking step, and passage grey 
 With the dark hues of Time. 
 She gain'd at length a humble room 
 Whose cheerless air of sombre gloom 
 Might well befit the lonely cell 
 Where world-forgetting hermits dwell; 
 
18 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 There, gazing timidly around, 
 
 The objects of her search she found ; 
 
 And o'er them bendeth one whose brow 
 
 Wears the high impress stamp'd by thought. 
 
 Whose eye is kindled by the glow 
 
 From the pure flame of genius caught. 
 
 With looks that rapturous feelings tell 
 
 He gazes on the flow ers before him ; 
 
 They seem, like some magician's spell, 
 
 To bid enchantment hover o'er him. 
 
 And mark, as oft aside he turns 
 
 To trace his thoughts upon the page, 
 
 With holier light his dark eye burns 
 
 And loftier dreams his soul enffaefe. 
 
 Doth not the pale brow'd student hnu, 
 
 In those fair, fragrant things, 
 
 A hidden charm that wakes his mind 
 
 To glorious imaginings ? 
 
 He is an ardent worshipper 
 
 At Nature's sacred shrine, 
 
 But kept, by adverse fortune, far 
 
 From all her works divine, 
 
 His spirit pines like prison'd bird, 
 
 'Til wishes wild and vain are stirr'd 
 
 Within his restless mind. 
 
 He longs to be away, away. 
 
 By lofty mount or verdant plain. 
 
 And feel the breath of Heaven play 
 
 Fresh o'er his fever'd brain ; 
 
 He longs to catch a living beam 
 
 From Nature's radiant eye 
 
 To light his soul's poetic dream 
 
 With inspiration high ! 
 
THE FAIRY'S SEARCH 19 
 
 With inspiration high ! 
 
 But ah he vainly longs for this— 
 
 Not his the lot, not his the hliss 
 
 To dwell where he might rove at will 
 
 By nmrnmring stream or mossy hill, 
 
 And feel their charms his spirit thrill 
 
 With thought's sublimest strains. 
 
 And, thus, denied the lot he loves, 
 
 He feels as exil'd from his home 
 
 And cherishes the lowliest thing 
 
 That can a shadowy picture bring 
 
 Of the beloved and beauteous scenes 
 
 He visits only in his dreams. 
 
 Thus How ers, to him, are like the chime 
 
 Of his own native melodies 
 
 To wanderer in a foreign clime ; 
 
 They image to his soul the light 
 
 Of lOvely scenes afar 
 
 As truly as the tranquil lake 
 
 Reflects the twilight Star. 
 
 Tho' voiceless, for his ear they have 
 
 A language all their own. 
 
 And, as the shell from ocean's cave 
 
 Still murmurs in melodious tone 
 
 Of its far distant home, 
 
 So, eloquently whisper they 
 
 Of their bright birth-place far away. 
 
 No marvel then the poet loves 
 
 These " children of the Sun and shower," 
 
 No marvel then their presence moves 
 
 His spirit with resistless power. 
 
 The Fairy mark'd tlie holy flame 
 
20 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 That kindled in the poet's eye, 
 
 And felt she scarce could wish to claim 
 
 Her flowers from such a destiny. 
 
 " Forever must my bower remain 
 
 " Without a Rose to blossom near 
 
 " E'er I can deck it o'er again 
 
 "With treasures gather'd here. 
 
 " No ! let the minstrel's ardent gaze 
 
 *' Beam on their beauties \ong, 
 
 " Though lowly, they have power to raise 
 
 " High thoughts for tuneful song ; 
 
 " And though so perishable, still 
 
 " They may inspire a lay 
 
 " Whose melody the world shall thrill 
 
 " 'Til Time's remotest day ! 
 
 " Then let the priest of Nature keep 
 
 " Her offspring fair — for it is meet 
 
 " Their incense breath should round him float 
 
 " And mingle with the anthems sweet 
 
 " That, from his soul's pure alter rise, 
 
 " Like grateful offerings to the skies !" 
 
 And musing thus the Fairy flew 
 
 From the Bard's dwelling, to renew 
 
 Her fond pursuit. Witli wondering air 
 
 She paus'd beside a mansion fair. 
 
 As palaces in sunny lands 
 
 That stately home was bright 
 
 With the rich treasures wealth commands 
 
 And gems that taste and art delight 
 
 To lavish on their shrine. 
 
 It seem'd that pleasure's thrilling song 
 
 Might ever echo round those walls 
 
THE FAIRY'S SEARCH. 21 
 
 And hope and peace and joy belong 
 
 To all wiio trod those halls ; 
 
 But ah ! no mortal home is free 
 
 From care's intrusive form ; 
 
 And never human heart can be 
 
 Exempt from sorrow's storm. 
 
 Within a large and lofty room 
 
 Where mocking splendor's smil'd, 
 
 A mother sat in grief and gloom 
 
 And sorrow'd o'er her child : — 
 
 Not o'er her child — but o'er the clay 
 
 That, when the yester-morn had birth, 
 
 Enshrin'd a " gem of purest ray," 
 
 A pearl of priceless worth. 
 
 A Mighty Power hath claim'd the gem, 
 
 With purpose good and wise, 
 
 And set it in a diadem 
 
 Whose light illumes the skies. 
 
 The mother knows her pearl will shine 
 
 Far brighter in its home above, 
 
 Yet must her spirit long repine 
 
 For that which woke its fondest love. 
 
 The rifled casket still is dear 
 
 Although its light is fled, 
 
 And mourning love must drop a tear 
 
 Above the early dead. 
 
 With eyes that rain like Summer showers. 
 
 With trembling hand and anguish'd face. 
 
 The mother now, with clustering flowers 
 
 Bedeck's her child's last dwelling place. 
 
 Ah, see how fair his pallid brow 
 
 Looks in that rosy garland now ! 
 
 And mark what life-like hue is caught 
 
23 ^ THE BOUQUET. 
 
 By voiceless lip, and moveless cheek, 
 
 As if again the spirit wrought 
 
 Within its temple, and would speak 
 
 Some ssveet and pleasant thought ! 
 
 'Tis strange how much of life and light 
 
 And beauty those fresh flow'rets give ; 
 
 They make the clay-cold features bright 
 
 And whisper that the lost doth ive ! 
 
 So lair the dear deception grows 
 
 That the pale mother's bosom glows 
 
 With a faint feeling, almost joy. 
 
 While gazing on her beauteous boy. 
 
 More hopeful now her watch she keeps, 
 
 More calmly views his lingering smile 
 
 Which seems to say he only sleeps, 
 
 Sleeps calm and dreams of Heaven the while I 
 
 " Aye, strew them o'er the silent head 
 
 " And lay them on the quiet breast ; 
 
 " Meet emblems of the early dead ; 
 
 " Fit offerings for their place of rest. 
 
 " Let none remove those fragrant things— 
 
 " Affection's votive offerings — 
 
 " From the pale clay ; there let them fade ; 
 
 " And when within the grave they're laid, 
 
 " Memory shall oft the lost restore, 
 
 " And paint him as he look'd before 
 
 " With the sweet garland round his brow 
 
 " And his lip wreath'd in smiles. 
 
 " Thus shall the mourning mother borrow 
 
 " A pleasant thought to soothe her sorrow, 
 
 " And deem her child was fitly dress'd 
 
 "To seek the presence of the bless'd. 
 
THE FAIRY'S SEARCH. 23 
 
 " And join the angel-band !" 
 
 The Fay 
 Thus said, then sadly tiim'd away 
 And, ^vith a drooping heart and wing, 
 Resuni'd again her w^andering. 
 And now^ she seeks a home of sin 
 Which veileth mournful scenes within. 
 Like stream whose sunlit surface hides 
 The gloom that in its depth abides. 
 There, in that dw elling's fatal walls, 
 Virtue a martyr'd victim falls ; 
 There Hope, " the Heaven-born charmer' dies 
 And peace, with trembling pinion, flies 
 Far from the gloomy scene. 
 
 The Fairy pass'd the threshold's bound 
 And gaz'd with timid wonder round ; 
 Soft came the shaded beams of day 
 Through casements drap'd in fabrics gay ; 
 This flood of rosy-tinted light 
 Fell over many an object bright, 
 And, like the glow of sun-set skies, 
 Bestow'd on all its ow n rich dies. 
 There were the Sculptor's forms of grace, 
 In whose Ihir shapes the eye might trace 
 The cunning of a master hand. 
 The powder that genius' sons command ; 
 And pictures whose rich colouring wore 
 The light, the life that beameth o'er 
 A living landscape — forms so fair, 
 Features of loveliness so rare. 
 And eyes that all so life-like beam'd, 
 Shane from the canvass, that it seem'd 
 
24 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 The artist must have won his power 
 From source divine by some high spell. 
 Or wander'd, in his dreaming hour, 
 Where shapes of heaven-born beauty dwell. 
 
 The tenant of this gorgeous room 
 Is a fair female, in the bloom 
 Of life's rich Summer days : 
 Oh sure if splendor's dazzl'ing rays 
 Have power the human heart to cheer 
 We'll find a fount of gladness here ! 
 But mark ye now the lone one's face, 
 'No sign of peace or joy you trace 
 Within that mirror ; — it reveals 
 But the sad weariness she feels. 
 The burning tint upon her cheek 
 Doth not health's rosy presence speak ; 
 'Tis but the hue that art bestows. 
 The counterfeit of nature's rose ; 
 And the quick flashing of her eye 
 Is not like joy's celestial beam, 
 But lightning in a stormy sky, 
 Whose lurid and terrific gleam 
 Shows the dark clouds that linger near 
 And wakens thoughts of gloom and tear. 
 All ye who seek to read the heart 
 And learn the secrets hidden there. 
 Watch well the eye— deceptive part 
 That never plays, but beameth pure 
 If all be pure within — man may school 
 His lying lip to smile by rule. 
 Or his deceitful brow to wear 
 The semblance of a joy not there, 
 
THE FAIRY'S SEARCH. 25 
 
 But o'er this mirror of his soul 
 He cannot hold such high control ; 
 This spurns all power that would subdue 
 And speaks in accents ever true ! 
 
 And now, if we can read aright 
 
 The language in those eyes so bright, 
 
 How sad are its revealings ! 
 
 How much it tells of grief and gloom, 
 
 Of buried hopes and blighted feelings 
 
 And joys that never more can bloom. 
 
 See, how intense and wild her gaze, 
 
 As if some sight of dread amaze 
 
 "Woke horror in her soul ; 
 
 How pales and glows her brow by turns ; 
 
 How wilder still her eye-beam burns ; 
 
 How heaves her breast with deep drawn sighs 
 
 Like ^^ avcs when angry winds arise ; 
 
 Hon moves her pallid lip, as though 
 
 It fain would breathe a wail of woe. 
 
 What moves her thus ? tliose Roses fair 
 
 So wildly scatter'd round lier there 1 
 
 Aye, they can well reveal the cause 
 
 Of her sad brow and earnest gaze. 
 
 For they have power to bid her pause 
 
 In sin and guilt's unholy ways. 
 
 She reads Avithin those stainless things 
 
 A moral lesson, pure and tme, 
 
 Which, to her darken'd spirit, brings 
 
 Thoughts of a better, brighter hue. 
 
 Visions of peace and hope and youth 
 
 Pass o'er the mirror of her mind. 
 
 Recalling friendships lit by truth 
 
2b Tll K BOUQUET. 
 
 And loves all sinless and refined. 
 
 Those flowers call back the blissful time 
 
 When she was pure and fair as they, 
 
 With form untouch'd, Unstain'd by crime 
 
 And spirit spotless as the day. 
 
 Oh, bless the thoughts those Roses give, 
 
 And bless the spells that in them live ! 
 
 Once more the erring ^^ anderer strays 
 
 *Mid the lov'd haunts of early days, 
 
 Pure, happy, innocent again 
 
 And free from every darkening stain. 
 
 Once more she wanders o'er the wild 
 
 A gay and guileless village child, 
 
 Hunting, in every lone retreat. 
 
 For Snow-drop fair or Violet sweet. 
 
 Once more, oh, bliss above all other, 
 
 She kneels beside her sainted mother, 
 
 And breathes the sweet and solenm prayers 
 
 She learn'd in childhood's happy hours. 
 
 She feels her parent's holy kiss. 
 
 She hears her gentle blessing given, 
 
 Oh ! can there be on a Earth a bhss 
 
 More pure, or more allied to Heaven ? 
 
 But all too dear the vision grows, 
 
 Too great the burden of delight ; 
 
 The dreamer wakes to present Avoes, 
 
 Awakes to feel the withering blight 
 
 Of shame and error's deepest stain 
 
 Enfold her like the captive's chain. 
 
 But tears, such tears as long have been 
 
 By those dark flashing eyes unshed. 
 
 Now falling fast and free, proclaim 
 
 That virtue's seeds are not all dead. 
 
THE FAIRY'S SEARCH. 
 
 " Hope for the lost ! high hope for one 
 " Who long hath been the child of sin ; 
 " One strain of memory's nuisic tone 
 " May haclv to peace a wanderer win ! 
 *' There, let my precious flow'rets he 
 " Long, long before her tearfid eye : 
 " They v.ake repentance for the past 
 " And o'er the clouded future cast 
 " One ray of hope serene 
 " Perchance these simple things may be 
 " The heralds of a better day 
 " And by their holy ministry 
 " Lure back the lost to virtue's way." 
 
 These words the wandering Fairy said 
 As from tiie mournful scene she fled. 
 But soon again her flight was stay'd 
 Beneath a Churchyard's sombre shade- 
 Alas, it is a solemn sight, 
 A graveyard in a city's bound. 
 So silent, sad and desolate. 
 While busy life is all around ! 
 It speaks so truly to the heart 
 Of being's vain and empty show ; 
 And seems to mock the fleeting part 
 We play while here below. 
 How hush'd and still the sleepers lie 
 While countless footsteps hurry by \ 
 How calm and tranquil all appear 
 While tumult, toil and strife are near ! 
 There sleep ambition's sons nor heed 
 The eflbrts of a rival train 
 Who hasten past to win the ineed 
 
i8 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 They sought in life to gain. 
 There rests the dreaming poet now. 
 Who once had hop'd to deck his brow 
 With Fame's unfading lays ; 
 Now other minstrels win the race 
 And make the lost one's burial place 
 Echo with their proud lays. 
 And there the slave of traffic lies | 
 In vain the golden chances rise, 
 In vain the speculator's prize 
 Is offered in the mart : — no more 
 He has, as in life's scheming hour. 
 The Alchemist's once fabled power* 
 His crafty spirit sleeps the while 
 His brother toiler's of the day 
 Sweep by to bask in Fortune's smile 
 And bear her spoils away ! 
 
 The dead, the quiet dead should rest 
 
 Far from the busy haunts of life, 
 
 Far from all care and toil unblest. 
 
 Far from all noise and strife. 
 
 In some sweet spot, where Nature sheds 
 
 A smile serene and fair, 
 
 We e'er should make their lowly bedja 
 
 And lay the sleepers there, 
 
 The smiling Sun or pensive Moon, 
 
 Should be the oply lights that shine 
 
 In such {^ scene ; the soothing tune 
 
 Of wild- bird's song divine. 
 
 Or murmuring waters gentle lay 
 
 The only music tones that play 
 
 Around the solemn shrine. 
 
THE FAIRY'S SEARCH. 5^9 
 
 There moaning winds, thro' leafy bowers. 
 Would softly sigh to answering flowers 
 And ceaseless requiems chaunt. 
 And this were fitting sight to see, 
 Sweet nature mourning o'er her dead. 
 Like a fond mother's tearful eye 
 Watching her offspring's bed. 
 
 Sadly the Fairy gaz'd around 
 
 On marble tomb and grassy mound, 
 
 And sigh'd to think of all the Avoe 
 
 That many living hearts would know 
 
 For those who slept so calm below ! 
 
 But peace again smil'd o'er her heart 
 
 When she beheld a grave apart. 
 
 So hallow'd by affection's light 
 
 •Twas cheerful to the gazer's sight. 
 
 The lowly bed was planted o'er 
 
 With shrubs and flowers, 
 
 So chosen that their own sweet lore. 
 
 Their " mystic language " might disclose 
 
 A touching tale— the pale white Rose 
 
 Was there of sadness deep to tell, 
 
 And Hyacinth, whose purple bell 
 
 [s eloquent of sorrow ; 
 
 And Violets of the azure hue, 
 
 Which change not with the changing skies, 
 
 And therefore are the emblems true 
 
 Of faithfulness— Its fragrant sighs 
 
 Sweet Rosemary breath'd around 
 
 And, with its leaves of fadeless green, 
 
 Spake of remembrance ;— there was found 
 
 The graceful locust too, which gave 
 
30 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 A beauteous aspect to the scene, 
 And told of love beyond the grave. 
 These token flowers reveal'd that he 
 Who slept below was unforgot. 
 That fond and faithful memory 
 Would linger long around the spot. 
 The sacred shrine w hich love had sought 
 For the dear idol of his thought. 
 
 And, kneehng now on that low bed. 
 
 The Fay beholds a woman fair, 
 
 With cheek wdiose early bloom is fled 
 
 And brow that wears the seal of care ; 
 
 With eye whose dim and shadowy light 
 
 Reveals a history of tears, 
 
 And tells that grief's untimely blight 
 
 Has fallen on hfe's Summer years. 
 
 She's weaving now a blooming wreath, 
 
 A garland of the Fairy's Roses, 
 
 To grace and beautify the tomb 
 
 Where her belov'd reposes. 
 
 Mark, how the tide of woe is stay'd. 
 
 And sorrow's gloomy shadows fade 
 
 From her pale brow and mournful eyes 
 
 The while her pleasant task she plies. 
 
 Tlie tear-drops pause upon her cheek 
 
 And linger there, and gleam awhile 
 
 As night's soft tears on mountain steep 
 
 Gleam in the morning's smile. 
 
 While bending o'er those bright-hued flow^ers 
 
 And drinking in their sweet perfume. 
 
 There comes a dream of liappier hours 
 
 To cheer the mourner's doom. 
 
THE FAIRY'S SEARCH 31 
 
 Like phantoms rais'd by wizard spell, 
 The vanish'd scenes of other days 
 Arise, in all their earlier charms. 
 Before her spirit gaze. 
 Her sobs are hush'd, her tears are dried, 
 Her heart hath cast its weight aside 
 And, for a time, forgot its woe 
 For loss of him who sleeps below. 
 
 " Dream on, dream on poor widow'd heart ; 
 
 " And may such visions peace impart. 
 
 ** Henceforth thou'lt tread life's daily round 
 
 " Like a lone pilgrim, who, in fear 
 
 " Wanders where gloomy sights abound 
 
 " And peril lurketh near. 
 
 *' Henceforth each hope that dawnis for thet 
 
 ** Must have a cloud to dim its light, 
 
 *' And every bud of joy you see 
 
 ** Must wear the canker's hidden blight. 
 
 *' Henceforth all music tones you hear 
 
 " Will ring with one discordant note, 
 
 " And o'er all prospects bright and dear 
 
 " One pall-like shadow still will float. 
 
 " The purest pleasures left for thee, 
 
 " Fond wife, are those of memory ; 
 
 " And they indeed are truly thine 
 
 " While thou art decking that sad shrine 
 
 " With my sweet flowers. Aye, streAv them there, 
 
 *' For they are oflierings pure and fair 
 
 " And meet for such a scene. Emblems of thee, 
 
 '• Sad one, these gentle flowers will be ; 
 
 " Lovely while perishing, and true 
 
 " To their pure lives, they'll yield a breath 
 
32 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 " Of sweetness to the last — thus you 
 " Will still love on 'til death." 
 
 Thus spake, in pity's tenderest strain, 
 
 The wanderer — then resum'd again 
 
 Her weary search. And now, in fear 
 
 And grief, she pauses near 
 
 A gloomy prison. In its cells 
 
 Many a wretched inmate dwells, 
 
 Shut out from peace and hope's sweet ray, 
 
 Shut out from honour's flowery way, 
 
 Shut out from every pleasant sight 
 
 And sound that wakens deep delight 
 
 In the free heart-^from the blue sky, 
 
 The balmy air, the Sun's glad beams, 
 
 The breathing flowers, the bounding streams, 
 
 And all thy blessings, Liberty ! 
 
 Oh, Crime, it is a fearful thing 
 
 And fearful penalties must bring ; 
 
 For deepest woe and darkest shame, 
 
 And blighted hopes and ruin'd name, 
 
 And Earth's contempt and Heaven's wrath 
 
 Must follow all who tread its path ! 
 
 Why will not wayward mortals learn 
 
 The fatal wiles of sin to spurn, 
 
 When, in all records of the past, 
 
 They read the truth, that, first or last. 
 
 The guilty meet a wretched doom ? 
 
 The good, the pure alone can know 
 
 The joys that in life's pathway bloom, 
 
 The Heaven that even here below 
 
 Can fill the heart, and waken there 
 
 All its diviner powers. 
 
THE FAIRY'S SEARCH. 33 
 
 To such the Earth is ever fair, 
 
 To such its fields and flowers 
 
 Still wear the hues of beauty bright. 
 
 The radient charm, the glorious light 
 
 That shone on Eden's bowers ; 
 
 And such, however low their lot. 
 
 However circumscrib'd the spot 
 
 They call their home, may walk the Earth 
 
 Proud in the consciousness of worth. 
 
 And freely claim a kindred tie 
 
 With the angelic host on high. 
 
 A strange, a sad and solemn sight 
 
 Now meets the Fairy's gaze. 
 
 It seemeth as if sudden night 
 
 Had veil'd the noon-tide's blaze. 
 
 Low, dark and gloomy are the walls. 
 
 From whence the noisome moisture falls : 
 
 A heap of straw the only bed 
 
 For the unhappy captive spread ; 
 
 A tatter'd garb his sole array 
 
 To keep the chilling damps away ; 
 
 His shrunken limbs, in fetters bound, 
 
 Move not without a clanking sound 
 
 That echoes dismally around. 
 
 But e'en in this degraded state. 
 
 He shows a lingering remnant yet 
 
 Of feelings meet for happier fate. 
 
 Crouch'd on the floor, just where a ray 
 
 Of sickly sun-shine makes its way 
 
 Thro' grating small, his fingers clasp, 
 
 With energy'? convulsive grasp, 
 
 A few frail flowers. How they had found 
 
34 T"K BOUQUET. 
 
 Their way within the prison bound 
 'Twere vain to tell ; — with kind intent, 
 Perchance some friend of better days 
 Had these sweet missionaries sent, 
 Repentance for the past to raise ; 
 Perchance that love, (it oft hath given 
 Such token of its deathless powers) 
 Had w ith a pity, born of Heaven, 
 Thus sought to soothe the Aveary hours 
 Of the lone wretch. — Needless to know 
 How those fair flowers he gain'd, 
 Be mine the pleasant task to show 
 With w hat a holy power they reign'd 
 O'er the sad heritor of shame. 
 Long had he paced the prison lloor 
 And eyed the narrow boundery o'er 
 With glance hke lightning's tlame, 
 While tiioughts of evil, dark and dire, 
 Awoke his soul to vengeful ire. 
 And curses deep and dreadful fell 
 Like muttering thunders round the cell. 
 Until it seem'd the gloomy lair 
 Of some dark demon of despair. 
 But now a sudden change is wrought 
 In the fierce current of his thought ; 
 Those flowers have touch 'd the only chord 
 Yet tuneful in his rugged breast 
 And feeling's fount is strangely stirr'd, 
 Like waters in the storm's unrest. 
 That one pure spark which never dies 
 E'en in the coldest, hardest hearts, 
 Which gleams, like Stars in clouded skies, 
 Thro' all the gloom that sin imparts. 
 
THE FAIRY'S Sn A RC ft 35 
 
 Now wakes and brightens like the ray 
 
 That herald's the approach of day. 
 
 The memory of a Mother's love ! 
 
 How like a voice from worlds above 
 
 It thrills the soul ! How long it dwells 
 
 Shrin'd in the heart's most holy cells 
 
 A sacred thing. — If darkening powers 
 
 Have quench'd the light of earlier hours 
 
 And bade all other pure thoughts fly, 
 
 That purest feeling will not die, 
 
 But lives and smiles 'mid blight and gloom 
 
 Like wild flower near a ruin'd tomb. 
 
 That feehng may be buried deep 
 
 Beneath a load of sin and shame. 
 
 And may for long, long seasons keep 
 
 Hidden from all its holy flame, 
 
 But it will wake in some lone hour 
 
 And rule the soul with conquering power. 
 
 Thus with the captive,— thick and fast 
 
 As Stars steal out when day is past, 
 
 Now gentle thoughts and memories steal. 
 
 Upon his spirit, and reveal 
 
 Glimpses of better things. Ho\^ bright appears 
 
 The vision of life's early years ; 
 
 How purely to his spirit gaze 
 
 Rises the well beloved form 
 
 Of her who watch'd with love so warm 
 
 His childhood's wayward days. 
 
 Each token of her love for him, 
 
 Her only son, her hope and pride, 
 
 Her watching 'til the Stars grew dim^ 
 
 In nightly vigils by his side. 
 
36 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 When pain oppress'd — her tireless care 
 
 To teach him lessons good and tnie, 
 
 Her oft repeated hope and prayer 
 
 That he might virtue's path pursue ; 
 
 All these fond memories cluster now 
 
 Around the captives heart — their power 
 
 Is like the Sun's reviving glow 
 
 In Spring's enchanted hour. 
 
 " Oh, God, and can it truly be 
 
 *• A wretch so lost, so vile as me 
 
 " Could e'er have been so deeply bless'd 
 
 " With such a love ? Did that pm*e ray 
 
 " In truth illume my childhood's day ? 
 
 " Ah, would to Heaven that Death's cold hand 
 
 ** Had lain me in an early grave, 
 
 " E'er I had slighted one command 
 
 " That sainted mother gave !" 
 
 These burning words tlie captive said. 
 
 Then bent his form and bow'd his head 
 
 And wept — aye, wept ! the man of crime. 
 
 Freely as in life's holier time ! 
 
 Thus, he, whose spirit woe and pain 
 
 And gloomy cell and galling chain 
 
 Had fail'd to soften or subdue. 
 
 Now melted to remorseful tears, 
 
 To penitence sincere and true, 
 
 Before those fairy flowers. And she 
 
 Who came to bear them to her bower 
 
 Wept too, with wondering joy, to see 
 
 This last sweet token of their power. 
 
 *' Ah, never more I'll fondly dream 
 
 " Or wish to claim my treasures fair, 
 
 " So dear to mortal homes they seem 
 
THE FAIRY'S SEARCH. 37 
 
 " 'Tis meet they spend their sweet lives there. 
 
 *' They're dear to all, the young and gay, 
 
 " The aged, in their wintry day, 
 
 " The happy, in their blissful mood, 
 
 *^ The sorrowing, w hen their griefs intrude { 
 
 " Oh, let these beauteous products, then, 
 
 " Bloom ever round the haunts of men ; 
 
 *' Let low ly cot and lordly hall 
 
 '* A.nd wide domain and garden small 
 
 " Receive the gentle guests ; and they, 
 
 " Henceforth shall rule with loftier sway ; 
 
 " For 1 am homeless now, my bower 
 
 *' Is desolate, and I nmst dwell 
 
 *' By turns ^^ith every beauteous flower 
 
 " That blooms around — a mystic spell, 
 
 " A high and holy charm shall be 
 
 ** Their recompense who shelter me ; 
 
 " Round each and all this gift shall live 
 
 *' E'en after they have ceas'd to give 
 
 *•' The wandering Fay a home. 
 
 " But ever, in fond memory 
 
 " Of my own chosen flowers, 
 
 " JRoses of every hue shall own 
 
 *^ A spell of deeper powders ; 
 
 *' The charm I give to them shall cast 
 
 *' Its magic over every heart 
 
 " And hold sweet influence there, and last 
 
 ** 'Til life itself depart ; 
 
 *' And holy spirits, when they grieve 
 
 '* O'er those who stray from virtue's track, 
 
 " Shall bless the spells that Roses weave 
 
 " And choose them as their messenger^i 
 
 "To call the wandereri? back." 
 
3S "fHE BOUQUET. 
 
 No more the Fairy spake — no more 
 
 She mourn'd her lost ; her search was o'er, 
 
 But not her wanderings, for she stray'd 
 
 Where many flowret's bloom'd, and made 
 
 Her home awhile with all. And still 
 
 She roams Earth's garden-bowers at will, 
 
 And nestles in Spring's opening Rose, 
 
 Or flutters round the Tulip's bell, 
 
 Or creeps, at evening's dewy close, 
 
 Within the Lily's fragrant cell, 
 
 And slumbers there, and dreams away 
 
 The Summer night in visions gay ; 
 
 And, when the morning smiles again, 
 
 She leaves the bright-hue'd garden flowers 
 
 And hies to lonely hill or plain 
 
 To spend a few delicious hours 
 
 Where the wild Honey-suckle's fling 
 
 Their balmy sweets on zephyr's wing. 
 
 When e'er a storm-cloud veils the sky 
 
 Or threat'ning Avinds sweep rudely by 
 
 She hastens to a safe retreat, 
 
 The Violet's shelter'd home, and there 
 
 Receives a welcome sweet 
 
 And rests 'til Heaven again is fair. 
 
 And, mindful of her promis'd spell, 
 
 She bids a mystic beauty dwell 
 
 Round every home she gains. 
 
 Ail ye who nurture flowers, and feel 
 
 Their soothing influence o'er ye steal 
 
 With u mysterious sway, be sure 
 
 The wandering Fay hath sojourn'd there 
 
 Aniitl your fragrant treasures, where 
 
 Her iharm e'en yet endures. 
 
THE FAIPxY'S SEAKCH. 39 
 
 And ye uho roam o'er daisied ground 
 
 While Spring or Summer smiles around, 
 
 And feel a bliss ^^ ords may not tell, 
 
 Know that the Fairy's magic spell 
 
 Is deepest in such place and time, 
 
 And wakes that sense of joy sublime. 
 
 Know, too, that a mysterious tie, 
 
 A lofty bond of sympathy, 
 
 Unites your spirits to the Fay, 
 
 And this is why her charm an sway 
 
 So potently your souls, for yet. 
 
 No matter where her footsteps roam, 
 
 She turns with memory's fond regret 
 
 To her first beauteous home, 
 
 And often pines, but pines in vain, 
 
 Another one so dear to gain. 
 
 Thus mortals, whatsoe'er their lot, 
 
 Turn ever to the sacred spot. 
 
 The first dear home that gave them birth 
 
 And deem it briglitest of the Earth, 
 
 And sigh that life no more can wear 
 
 The blissful hues that deck'd it there. 
 
 And now my pleasant task were done. 
 Save that there comes a thought of one 
 Who truly said " they write in vain 
 Who weave no moral with their strain ;' 
 And mine were little worth indeed 
 If wanting this. — To those who read 
 This simple tale, then, let me say. 
 Cherish and love the lowly things 
 That form the burden of my lay ; 
 For their sn eet lives, tho' brief as bright, 
 
40 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 Are ruled by that same power Divine 
 
 Who bids each glorious world of light 
 
 In its appointed orbit shine ; 
 
 And not more wonderous to the soul 
 
 Are the bright worlds that o'er us roll 
 
 Unchang'd by time, than the frail flower 
 
 Whose life is compass'd by an hour ; 
 
 Each speaks the same high language ;— each 
 
 The same ennobling lessons teach ; 
 
 Each leads our thoughts and hopes above, 
 
 Each wakes our reverence and our love 
 
 For the Supreme — the " Great First Cause," 
 
 Who rules with such unerring laws. 
 
THE MOSS ROSE. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF KRUMMACHER. 
 BV B. J. LOSSING. 
 
 Beneath a Rose-bush, slumbering lay 
 
 A sei-aph bright, from Flora's bower.— 
 *Twas he, \\ ho, at the close of day 
 
 Sprinkles with dew each fragrant flower. 
 
 He 'woke, and on the Rose-bush sir i led, 
 
 And with a voice that breath'd of Heaven, 
 Thus spake — " Thou art my loveliest child, 
 A favor ask, and 'twill be given." 
 " Adorn me with a lovelier charm" — 
 Th ^ spirit of the Rose-bush pray'd, 
 The angel, stretching forth his arm, 
 In simple Moss the flower array'd ! 
 It stood, the loveliest of its kind, 
 
 A sweet Moss Rose in simple dress ; 
 Bright emblem of a modest mind 
 Adorn'd with nature's loveliness. 
 Thus, dearest sister, lay aside, 
 
 The gaudy ornaments of Art — 
 Let modest Worth be all thy pride,— 
 Let Virtue decorate thy heart. 
 New YoiiK, 1846. 
 
Fair one ! take this Rose, and wreath it 
 
 In thy braided hair : 
 A brighter bloom will rest beneath it, 
 
 Take this Rose my fair ! 
 The How er which late was seen to i;i.>v> , 
 So lovely on that snowy brow, 
 Lo\'d thy hp, and lightly shed 
 A dewy leaf of rosy red, 
 
 lo blush for ever there. 
 
 Take this Lily love, and twine it 
 
 With thy waving hair : 
 ^Twill gem the ringlets, why decline it ' 
 
 Take the flower my fair ! 
 And yet its leaflets, pure and pale 
 In beauty on thy brow will fail : 
 That brow attracts all eyes to thee, 
 And none will choose, or chance to sco 
 
 The Lily fading there. 
 
 A A. I' 
 
0^ \ 
 
 ^^^cy-t^'y/^/Y/Y. r,y/UP^:i/^. 
 
THE TEA ROSE. 
 
 BY MRS. H. E. BEECHER STONE. 
 
 There it stood, in its little green vase, on a light ebony stand, 
 in the window of the drawing room. The rich satin curtains with 
 their costly fringes swept down on either side of it, and around glit- 
 tered every rare and fanciful trifle which wealth can afford to lux- 
 ury, and yet that simple rose was the fairest of them all. So pure 
 it looked — its white leaves just touched with that delicious creamy 
 tint, peculiar to its kind, its cup so full, so perfect, its head bending 
 as if it were sinking and melting away in its own richness — oh, 
 when did man ever make anything like the living perfect flower ! 
 
 But the sunlight that streamed through the window revealed 
 something fairer than the rose. Reclined on an ottoman, in a deep 
 recess, and intently engaged with a book, lay what seemed, the 
 living counterpart of that so lovely a flower. That cheek so pale, 
 so spiritual, the face so full of liigh thought, the fjiir forehead, th<3 
 long, downcast lashes, and the expression of the beautiful mouth, so, 
 sorrowful yet so subdued and sweet — it seemed like the picture of 
 d dream. 
 
 " Florence, — Florence ! " echoed a merry and musical voice in i\ 
 sweet impatient tone. Turn your head, reader, and you will see a 
 dark and sparkling maiden, the very model of some little wilful elf, 
 born of mischief and motion, with a dancing eye, afoot that scarcely 
 seemed to touch the carpet, and a smile so multiplied by dimples, 
 that it seemed like a thousand smiles at once. " Come Florence, I 
 
44 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 say," said the little fairy, " put down that wise, good, excellent vol- 
 ume, and talk with a poor little mortal, — come, descend from your 
 cloud, my dear." 
 
 The fair apparition thus abjured — obeyed, and looking up, re- 
 vealed just the eyes you expected to see beneath such lids ; eyes 
 deep, pathetic and rich, as a strain of sad music. 
 
 "I say, cousin," said the 'darke ladye,' "I've been thinking 
 what you are to do with your pet rose, when you go to New- York 
 — as to our great consternation you are going to do ; you know it 
 would be a sad pity to leave it with such a scatterbrain as I am. I 
 do love flowers, that's a fact ; that is, I like a regular bouquet, cut 
 off and tied up to carry to a party ; but as to all this tending and 
 fussing that is necessary to keep them growing, I've no gifts in that 
 line." 
 
 " Make yourself quite easy as to that, Kate," said Florence, with 
 a smile. " I've no intention of calling upon your talents; I have an 
 asylum for my favourite." 
 
 " Oh! then you know just what I was going to say; Mrs. Marshall 
 I presume has been speaking to you ; she was here yesterday, and 
 I was very pathetic upon the subject, telling her the loss your 
 favourite would sustain, and so forth, and she said how delighted 
 she should be to have it in her green-house, it is in such a fine 
 state now, so full of buds. I told her 1 knew you would like, of 
 all things, to give it to her, you were always so fond of Mrs. 
 Marshall, you know." 
 
 ^^ Nay, Kate, I'm sorry, but I have otherwise engaged it." 
 
 " Who can it be to ? you have so few intimates here." 
 
 ^' Oh, only one of my odd fancies." 
 
 " But do tell me, Florence." 
 
 " Well, cousin, you know the little pale girl to whom we give 
 sewing." 
 
 " What, little Mary Stephens 1 How absurd ! This is just of a 
 piece, Florence, with your other motherly, old-inaidish ways — 
 
THE TEA ROSE. 45 
 
 dressing dolls for poor children, making caps, and knitting socks 
 for all the Kttle dirty babies in the region round about. I do be- 
 lieve that you have made more calls in those two vile, ill-smelling 
 alleys back of our house than ever you have in Chesnut-street, 
 though you know every body has been half dying to see you ; and 
 now, to crown all, you must give this choice little bijou to a semp- 
 tress girl, when one of your most intimate friends, in your own class, 
 would value it so highly. What in the world can people in their 
 circumstances want of flowers ? " 
 
 " Just the same that I do," replied Florence, calmly. " Have 
 you never noticed that the little girl never comes here without 
 looking wistfully at the opening buds ? and don't you remember 
 the morning when she asked me so prettily if I would let her 
 mother come and see it, she was so fond of flowers 1 " 
 
 " But, Florence, only think of this rare flower standing on a table, 
 with ham, eggs, cheese, and flour, and stifled in the close little 
 room where Mrs. Stephens and her daughter manage to wash, iron, 
 cook, and nobody knows what besides.*' 
 
 " Well, Kate, and if I were obliged to live in one coarse room, 
 and wash, iron, and cook, as you say — if I had to spend every mo- 
 ment of my time in hard toil, with no prospect from my window 
 but a brick side-walk, or a dirty lane, such a flower as this would 
 be untold happiness to me." 
 
 " Pshaw, Florence — all sentiment ; poor people have no time to 
 be sentimental ; besides, I don't think it will grow with them— it 
 is a green-house flower, and used to delicate living." 
 
 " Oh, as to that, a flower never inquires whether its owner be 
 rich or poor ; and Mrs. Stephens, whatever else she has not, has 
 sunshine of as good a quahty as that that streams through our win- 
 dow. The beautiful things that God makes are the gift of all alike. 
 You will see that my little rose will be as well and merry in Mrs 
 Stephen's room as in ours." 
 
 " Well, after all, how odd ! when one gives to poor people one 
 
46 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 wants to give them something useful — a bushel of potatoes or a 
 ham, for example." 
 
 " Why, certainly, potatoes and ham must be had ; but, having 
 ministered to the first and most craving w^ants, why not add any 
 little pleasure or gratifications that we may have it in our power to 
 give. I know that there are many of the poor who have fine feeling 
 and a keen sense of the beautiful, which rusts out and dies because 
 they are too hard pressed to procure it one gratification. Poor Mrs. 
 Stephens, for example ; I know she would enjoy birds, and flowers, 
 and music as much as I do. I have seen her eye kindle as she has 
 looked on the things in our drawing-room, and yet not one beautiful 
 thing can she command. From necessity, her room, her clothing, 
 all that she has, must be coarse and plain. You should have seen 
 the almost rapture that she and Mary felt when I offered them my 
 Rose." 
 
 " Dear me ! all this may be true, but I never thought of it before. 
 I never thought that these hard-working people had any idea of 
 taste ! " 
 
 " Then why do you see so often the Geranium or Rose carefully 
 nursed in an old cracked tea-pot in the poorest room, or the Morn- 
 ing Glories planted in a box, and made to twine around the window. 
 Do not all these show how every human heart yearns after the 
 beautiful ? You remember how Mary our washerwoman sat up a 
 whole night after a hard day's work, that she might make her first 
 baby a pretty little dress to be baptized in." 
 
 " Yes, I remember, and how I laughed at you for making such a 
 tasty little cap for it." 
 
 " Well, Katy, I think that the look of perfect delight and satis- 
 faction with which the poor girl regarded her baby in its new dress 
 and cap, was something quite worth creating; 1 do believe she 
 could not have thanked me more, if I had sent her a barrel of 
 flour." 
 
 '• Well, I never before thought of giving to the poor anything but 
 
THE TEA EOSE. 47 
 
 what they really needed, and I have always been willing to do 
 that, w^hen I could without going far out of my w^ay." 
 
 *' Well, cousin, if our Heavenly Father gave to us as w^e often 
 give, we should have only coarse shapeless piles of provision, lying 
 about the world, instead of all the beautiful variety of trees, fruits, 
 and flowers which now delight us." 
 
 " Well, well, cousin, I suppose you are right, but pray have mercy 
 on my poor head; it is too small to hold so many new ideas at once; 
 even go on your own way:" and the little lady began practizing a 
 waltzing step before the glass with great satisfaction. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 It was a very small room, and lighted by only one window. 
 There was no carpet on the floor ; there was a clean but coarsely 
 covered bed in one corner; a cupboard with a few plates and 
 dishes in the other ; a chest of drawers ; and before the window 
 stood a small cherry stand, quite new, and indeed the only article 
 in the room that seemed so. A pale sickly looking woman of about 
 forty was leaning back in her rocking chair, her eyes closed, and 
 her lips compressed as if in pain. She rocked backw^ard and for- 
 ward a few moments, pressed her hand hard upon her eyes, and 
 then languidly resumed the fine stitching on which she had been 
 busy since morning. The door opened, and a slender little girl of 
 about twelve years of age entered, her large blue eyes dilated, and 
 absolutely mdiant with delight, as she held up the small vase w^th 
 the Rose-tree in it. 
 
 " Oh see ! Mother, see ! there's one in full bloom, and two more 
 half out, beautiful buds ! " 
 
 The poor woman's face brightened, as she looked first on the 
 Rose, and then on her sickly girl, on whose face she had not seen so 
 bright a colour for months. 
 
 *' God bless her ! " said she, involuntarily. 
 
 "• Miss Florence ! I knew you w^ould feel so, mother ; don't it 
 
48 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 make your headache better to see this flower? Now you won't 
 look so wishful at the gardeners' stands in the market, will you ? 
 We have a Rose handsomer than any of theirs. Why it seems to 
 me, that it is worth as much to us as our whole little garden used 
 to be. See how many more buds there are on it, just count, and 
 only smell the flower ! Where shall we put it ! " and Mary 
 skipped about the room, placing her treasure first in one position, 
 and then in another, and walking off to see the effect, till her 
 mother gently reminded her that the Rose-tree could not preserve 
 its beauty without sunhght. 
 
 " Oh yes, truly ! " said Mary : " well, then, it must stand here 
 on this new stand. How glad I am that we have such a handsome 
 new stand for it, it will look so much better." And Mrs. Stephens 
 laid down her work and folded a piece of newspaper on which the 
 treasure was duly deposited. 
 
 " There," said Mary, watching the arrangement eagerly, " that 
 will do ; no, though it does not show both the buds — turn it farther 
 round — -a little more — there, it's right;" and Mary walked round 
 the room to view the Rose in various positions, after which she in- 
 sisted that her mother should go round with her to the outside to 
 see how it looked there. " How kind it was in Miss Florence to 
 think of giving this to us," said Mary ; " though she has done so 
 much for us, and given us so many things, yet this present seems 
 the best of all, because it seemed as if she thought of us, and knew 
 just how we felt, and so few do that. 
 
 " Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Stephens sighing. 
 
 What a bright afternoon that small gift made in that little room. 
 How much faster Mary's tongue and fingers flew the livelong day, 
 and Mrs. Stephens, in the happiness of her child, almost forgot that 
 she had a headache, and thought as she supped her evening cup of 
 tea, that she felt stronger than she had done for some time. 
 
 That Rose ! its sweet influence died not with that first day 
 Through all the long cold winter that followed, the watching. 
 
THE TEA ROSE. 49 
 
 tending, and cherishing of that flower, awakened a thousand pleas- 
 ant trains of thought that beguiled the sameness and weariness of 
 their life. Every day the fair growing thing put forth some fresh 
 beauty; a bud — a leaf— or a new shoot, constantly excited fresh 
 delight in its possessors. As it stood in the window, the passer by 
 would sometimes stop and gaze, attracted by its beauty, and then 
 how proud and happy was Mary, nor did even the serious and care- 
 worn widow, notice with indifference when she saw the eye of a 
 chance visitor rest admiringly on their favourite. 
 
 But httle did Florence know when she gave that gift, that there 
 was twined around it an invisible thread, that reached far as brightly 
 into the w^eb of her destiny. 
 
 One cold afternoon in early Spring, a tall, graceful young man 
 called at the lowly room to receive and pay for some linen which 
 the widow had been making up. He was a wayfarer and stranger 
 in the place, recommended through the charity of some of Mrs. 
 Stephens' patrons. His eye, as he was going out, rested admiringly 
 upon the Rose ; he stopped and looked earnestly at it. 
 
 " It was given to us," said httle Mary, quickly, " by a young lady 
 as sweet and beautiful as that is." 
 
 " Ah ! " said the stranger, turning and fixing upon her a pair of 
 very bright eyes, pleased and rather struck with the simplicity of 
 the communication, " and how came she to give it to you my Kttle 
 girl?" 
 
 " Oh, because we are poor, and mother is sick, and we never can 
 have any thing pretty. We used to have a garden once, and we 
 loved flowers so much, and Miss Florence found all this out, and so 
 she gave us this." 
 
 " Florence ! " echoed the stranger. 
 
 " Yes, Miss Florence I'Estrange, a beautiful young lady, — they 
 say she was from foi'eign parts, though she speaks English just like 
 any other lady, only sweeter." 
 
50 THE BOUQUET 
 
 " Is she here now ? is she in this city ? " said the gentleman 
 eagerly. 
 
 " No, she left some months ago," said the widow, but noticing 
 the sudden shade of disappointment on his face she added, " but 
 you can find all about her by inquiring at her aunt Mrs. Carlisle's, 
 No. 10, street." 
 
 As the result of all this, Florence received from the office in the 
 next mail, a letter, in a handwriting that made her tremble. 
 During the many early years of her life spent in France, she had 
 well learned that writing ; had loved as a woman like her loves, 
 but once ; but there had been obstacles of parents and friends, 
 separation, and long suspense, till at length, for many bitter years, 
 she had believed that the relentless sea closed forever over that 
 hand and heart ; and it was this belief that had touched, with such 
 sweet calm sorrow, every line in her lovely face. But this letter 
 told her that he was living, that he had traced her, even as a hidden 
 streamlet may be traced, by the freshness, the greenness of heart, 
 which her deeds of kindness had left wherever she had passed. 
 
 And thus much said, do our fair readers need any help in fmish- 
 iug this feitory for themselves ? of course not. 
 
THE ROSE. 
 
 Why, what a history is in the Rose! 
 
 A history beyond all other flowers; 
 
 But never more, in garden or in grove, 
 
 Will the white queen reign paramount again. 
 
 She must content her with remembered things, 
 
 When her pale leaves were badge for knight and earl; 
 
 Pledge of a loyalty which was as pure. 
 
 As free from stain, as those white depths her leaves 
 
 Unfolded to the earliest breath of June. 
 
 L. E. L. 
 
 THE YOUNG ROSE. 
 
 The young Rose I give thee, so dew'y and bright, 
 Was the flow'ret most dear to the sweet bird of night. 
 Who oft, by the moon, o'er her blushes hath hung. 
 And thrilled every leaf with the wild lay he sung. 
 
 Oh, take thou tliis young Rose, and let her life be 
 Prolonged by the breath she will borrow from thee ; 
 For, while o'er her bosom thy soft notes shall thrill, 
 She'll think the sweet night-bird is courting her still. 
 
KOSE OF THE JUESERT. 
 
 Rose of the Desert ! thou, whose blushing ray, 
 Lonely and lovely, fleets unseen away; 
 No hand to cull thee, none to woo thy sigh, — - 
 In vestal silence left to live and die,— 
 Rose of the Desert ! thus should woman be. 
 Shining uncourted, lone and safe, like thee. 
 
 Rose of the Garden, how unlike thy doom ! 
 Destined for others, not thyself, to bloom; 
 Culled ere thy beauty lives through half its day; 
 A moment cherished, and then cast away; 
 Rose of the Garden ! such is woman's lot, — 
 Worshipped, while blooming — when she fades, forgot. 
 
THE ROSE OF MAY. 
 
 BY MARY HOWITT. 
 
 All, there's the Lily, marble pale, 
 The bonny Broom, the Cistus frail. 
 The rich Sweet-pea, the Iris blue. 
 The Larkspur with its peacock hue ; 
 Each one is fair yet hold I will 
 That the Rose of May is fairer still. 
 
 'Tis grand 'neath palace walls to grow ; 
 To blaze where lords and ladies go ; 
 To hang o'er marble founts, and shine 
 In modern gardens trim and tine ; — 
 But the Rose of May is only seen 
 Where the great of other days have been. 
 
 The house is mouldering stone by stone ; 
 The garden-walks are overgrown ; 
 The flowers are low ; the weeds are high 
 The fountain stream is choked and dry ; 
 The dial-stone with Moss is green 
 Where'er the Rose of May is seen. 
 
 The Rose of May its pride displayed 
 Along the old stone balustrade ; 
 
54 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 And ancient ladies, quaintly slight, 
 In its pink iDlossoms took delight, 
 And on the steps would make a stand. 
 To scent its sweetness, fan in hand. 
 
 Long have been dead those ladies gay ; 
 Their very heirs have passed away ; 
 And their old portraits, prim and tall, 
 Are mouldering in the mouldering hall; 
 The terrace and the balustrade 
 Lie broken, weedy and decayed. 
 
 But, lithe and tall, the Rose of May 
 Shoots upward through the niin gray, 
 With scented flower, and leaf pale green, 
 Such Rose as it hath ever been ; 
 Left like a noble deed, to grace 
 The memory of an ancient race. 
 
 What exact species of Rose this is I do not know ; it appears not 
 to be approved of in modern gardens; at least, if it be, it is so much 
 altered by cultivation as to have lost much of its primitive character. 
 I saw it in three different situations in Nottinghamshire. In the 
 small remains of gardens and old labyrinthine shrubbery at Aw- 
 thorpe Hall, — which, when we were there, had just been taken 
 down, — the residence of the good Col. John Hutchinson, and his 
 STv^eet wife Lucy ; — ^in the very gardens which, as she relates in his 
 life, he laid out, and took so much pleasure in. It was growing, 
 also, with tall shoots and abundance of flowers, in the most forlorn 
 of gardens, at an old place called Burton Grange, a house so deso- 
 late and deserted as to have gained, from a poetical friend of ours, 
 the appropriate name of the Dead House. It was a dreary and 
 most lonesome place ; the very bricks of which it was built were 
 
THEROSEOFMAY, 55 
 
 bleached by long exposure to wind and weather; — there seemed no 
 life within or about it. Every trace of furniture and wainscot was 
 gone from its interior, and its principal rooms were the depositories 
 of old ploughs and disused ladders ; yet still its roof, floors and 
 windows were in decent repair. It had once upon a time been a 
 well conditioned house ; had been moated, and its garden-wall had 
 been terminated by stately stone pillars surmounted by well-cut 
 urns, one of which, at the time we were there, lay overgrown with 
 grass in the ground beneath; the other, after a similar fail, had 
 been replaced, but with the wrong end uppermost. To add still 
 more to its lonesomeness, thick, wild woods encompassed it on three 
 sides, whence, of an evening, and often too in the course of the day, 
 came the voices of owls and other gloomy wood-creatures. 
 
 " There's not a flower in the garden," — said a woman who, with 
 her husband and child, we found to our astonishment, inhabiting 
 what had once been the scullery, — " not a flower but Feverfew and 
 the Rose of May, and you'll not think it worth getting." She was 
 mistaken ; I was delighted to And this sweet and favourite Rose in 
 so ruinous a situation. 
 
 Again, w^e found it in the gardens of Annesley Hall, that most 
 poetical of old mansions ; and the ancient housekeeper, at that time 
 its sole inhabitant, pointed out this flower with a particular empha- 
 sis. " And here's the Rose of May," said she, draw ing out a slender 
 spray from a tangle of Jessamine that hung about the stone-work 
 of the terrace ; " a main pretty thing, though there's little store set 
 by it now-a-days." 
 
THE LILY AND THE RUSE. 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 The nymph must lose her female friend. 
 If more admir'd than she — 
 
 But where will fierce contention end, 
 If flowers can disagree ? 
 
 Within the garden's peaceful scene 
 
 Appeared two lovely foes 
 Aspiring to the rank of queen 
 
 The Lily and the Rose. 
 
 The Rose soon redden'd into rage, 
 And swelling with disdain, 
 
 Appeal'd to many a Poet's page 
 To prove her right to reign. 
 
 The Lily's height bespoke command, 
 
 A fair imperial flower ; 
 She seem'd design'd for Flora's hand, 
 
 The sceptre of her power. 
 
THELILYANDTHEROSE. 57 
 
 This civil bickering and debate 
 
 The goddess chanced to hear, 
 And Hew to save, ere yet too late. 
 
 The pride of the parterre. 
 
 Yours is, she said, the nobler hue, 
 
 And yours the statelier mein ; 
 And, till a third surpasses you. 
 
 Let each be deemed a queen. 
 
 Thus, sooth'd and reconcil'd, each seeks 
 
 The fairest British fair : 
 The seat of empire is her cheeks. 
 
 They reign united there. 
 
THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE. 
 
 Being weary of love, 
 
 I flew to the grove. 
 And chose me a tree of the fairest ; 
 
 Saying, " Pretty Rose-tree 
 
 Thou my mistress shalt be, 
 A.nd I'll worship each bud thou bearest. 
 For the hearts of this world are hollow, 
 And fickle the smiles we follow ; 
 
 And 'tis sweet when all 
 
 Their witch'ries pall. 
 To have a pure love to fly to ; 
 
 So my pretty Rose-tree, 
 
 Thou my mistress shalt be, 
 And the only orife now I shall sigh to." 
 
 When the beautiful hue 
 
 Of thy cheek through the dew 
 Of morning is bashfully peeping, 
 
 " Sweet tears," I shall say 
 
 (As I brush them away), 
 " At least there's no art in this weeping." 
 Although thou should'st die to-morrow, 
 'Twill not be from pain or sorrow ; 
 
 And the thorns of thy stem 
 
 Are not like them 
 With which men wound each other ; 
 
 So my pretty Rose-tree, 
 
 Thou my mistress shalt be, 
 And I'll ne'er sigh again to another. 
 
THE CHILD AND THE ROSE. 
 
 MY &lRiS. SEBA SMJTH 
 
 When stirring bud and songful bird 
 Brought gladness to the Earth, 
 
 And spring-time voices first were heard 
 In low, sweet sounds of mirth ; 
 
 # 
 A little child, with pleasant eyes, 
 
 Reclined in tranquil thought. 
 And, half communing with the skies. 
 
 His pretty fancies wrought. 
 
 He tum'd where cased in robes of green 
 A Rose-bud met his eye — 
 
 And one faint streak the leaves between. 
 Rich in its crimson dye. 
 
 The warm light gathereth in the sky— 
 The bland air stirreth round — 
 
 And yet the child is lingering by, 
 Half kneeling on the ground : 
 
60 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 For broader grew that crimson streak. 
 Back folds the leaf of green — 
 
 And he in wonder still and meek 
 Watched all its opening sheen. 
 
 " 'Tis done, 'tis done !" at length he cried. 
 With glad amazement wild — 
 
 The Rose, in new created pride. 
 Had open'd for the child. 
 
 Oh ! had we hearts like thine, sweet boy, 
 To watch Creative Power 
 
 We too should thrill with kindred joy 
 At every opening flower. 
 
^,sv- 
 
 1^^l^ / 
 
THE TULIP.- 
 
 BY B. J. LOSSING. 
 
 Not one of Flora's brilliant race 
 
 A form more perfect can display ; 
 Art could not fain more simple grace 
 
 Nor Nature take a line away. 
 
 Yet, rich as morn of many a hue 
 ^ When flushing clouds through darkness strike, 
 
 The Tulip's petals shine in dew, 
 All beautiful, but none alike. 
 
 Montgomery. 
 
 Tulips ! Twolips ! what a delightful theme ! Beauty, grace, pas- 
 don, the purest offerings of the heart, the holiest memories, all bud 
 and blossom in the mind by the Creative Power of the sweet name 
 of Tulips— delicious, blooming Twolips. Who does not admire 
 Tulips, aye, who that has a heart to love, does not at times most 
 fervently worship Twolips. 
 
 • The Tulip belongs to the Liliacae family, containing about a dozen species, mostly natives of 
 the Levant, or adjoining countries of Asia. Their roots are bulbous— leaves, few in number and dis- 
 poaed about the base of the stem— the latter simple and usually terminated by a solitary flower 
 The calyx is wanting— the corolla composed of six petals, and the stameni six in number. The 
 most noted species is the common garden Tulip, (T. gesneriana) which was first introduced into 
 European gardens by Conrad Gesner, who, in 1559 discovered it in the garden of an amateur at 
 AiUg^burgh He had received it from Constantinople as a present from a friend. 
 
62 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 Far back amid the flitting shadows of grey antiquity, and even 
 in the dim twihght of the morning of creation, may we perceive 
 the graceful form of these flowers, the fairest smiles of the Holy 
 One made tangible to mortal vision. And when, in the Garden of 
 the Lord, our primal Ancestor awoke from his " deep sleep," the 
 first objects that greeted his wondering eyes, were lovely Twolips, 
 blooming upon a stem of inexpressible grace, while from the petals 
 came perfumes so audible to the ear and heart of this initial mortal, 
 that ecstacy filled his soul, and bright, prophetic visions of on-coming 
 generations of humanity spread out like a halo of glory around him. 
 And when the first Bride " walked in the Garden " or reclined 
 beside the bubbling sources of Pison, and Gihon, and Hiddekel and 
 Euphrates, sweet Tulips bloomed in her path, or stood sentinels 
 around her couch, for in that Paradise was " every herb bearing 
 seed which is upon the face of all the Earth." 
 
 Upon the drenched summit of Arrarat, amid the Olive-trees upon 
 its margin, and the Citron and Pomegranate of the plain below, 
 where rested the spring of the Bow of Promise, Tulips bloomed in 
 all their wonderous beauty. 
 
 " And sure more lovely to behold 
 
 Might nothing meet the wistful eye, 
 Than crimson fading into gold 
 
 In streaks of fairest symmetry." 
 
 Langhorn. 
 
 A few generations, and the whole region to Iran was redolent 
 with Twolips, from whence, the adventurous children of the navi- 
 gator-prophet transplanted them in the soil of " barbaric Ind," — 
 the *' clime of the South, the land of the Sun," and the Western 
 domain on the border of the " Sea of Tarshish," the 
 
 " land of the Cedar and Vine, 
 
 Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine." 
 
THE TULIP. 63 
 
 The descendants of Prince Shem, conveyed them to the Indus, — 
 of Duke Ham, to the Nilotic Valley, — and of Earl Japhet, to the 
 Peloponnesees. There they respectively flourished, and in due 
 time, the gentle and ever varying breezes of adventure wafted a 
 fruitful seed to every Island and Continent of the " habitable globe." 
 But only within the great girdles of the temperate zones do they 
 flourish in all their vigor and beauty, for the tropical and frozen 
 regions are incongenial to their growth. 
 
 Among the Orientals, where flowers constitute a language for the 
 communication of hearts, the Tulip is employed as the emblem by 
 which a lover makes a declaration of love. In our written lan- 
 guage, the same word in diff'erent relations, expresses diff'erent 
 ideas. So with Tulips. The rich, variegated flower, glowing with 
 carnation, and humed with dew, is received as a declaration of 
 love, — 
 
 " Forever thine, whate'er this world betide, 
 
 In youth, and age, thine own, forever thine." 
 
 A. A. Watts. 
 
 while the Yellow Tulip is an emblem of hopeless love — of love 
 unrequited — of love, conscious of no sympathizing response, and 
 whose plaint is — 
 
 He comes not — sends not — faithless one ! 
 It is no dream — and I am desolate." 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Nor are the Orientals the only people who employ Twolips to 
 make a declaration of love, or to express the complainings of unre- 
 quited passion. They can only claim pre-eminence because of 
 priority of use ; for Twolips constitute a universal instrument in 
 affairs of love. True, with us, the Rose and the Lily have wonder- 
 ous influence in the vocabulary of passion, when beauty assumes to 
 be interpreter and umpire, yet these fail to convey the heart's 
 whole meaning, and Twolips are summoned to join the embassy 
 and give emphasis to the message. 
 
64 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 The pale, white Lily fading upon its stem, is a fit symbol of hope- 
 less love, and images the departed beauty and present desolation of 
 the heart, — yet the Lily is inadequate to the task of revelation, and 
 yellow Twolips, with their sad, sallow petals, can alone convey the 
 full expression of an unmated sentiment. There is something in the 
 *' sere and yellow leaf" of the Tidipa sylvestris, that tells of decay 
 and approaching death, and hence it is that yellow Twolips form a 
 universal emblem of hopeless love. 
 
 About the middle of the seventeenth century, a "Tulip mania" 
 prevailed in Europe, some of the details of which seem quite incre- 
 dible. On the first introduction of Tulips into Europe from Persia, 
 via the Levant, they became special favorites with gardeners, and 
 in Holland, a mania for possessing rare kinds seized all classes of 
 people. This mania war based not upon a taste for the flowers, but 
 upon gambling speculations, such as prevailed to some extent in this 
 country a few years ago with morus muUicaidis. Semper Augustus 
 was the name given to the finest variety, and $2,000, a new carriage, 
 a pair of horses and harness, were given for a single bulb of this 
 kind ; and it is said that during the height of this mania, engage- 
 ments to the amount of $25,000 were made for a single root of a 
 particular sort. It is related that one man, possessing a yearly 
 income of $50,000 was reduced to beggary in the space of four 
 months, by purchasing these flowers ! The city of Harlaem alone 
 derived a revenue of fifty millions of dollars in the space of three 
 years, from this floral gambling. During these operations, the cul- 
 tivation of Tulips became an absorbing thought with florists, and 
 the species were greatly multiplied. Count Pappenheim boasted at 
 one time that his garden contained five thousand varieties. 
 
 A great fondness for Tulips still prevails in Holland. Upwards of 
 three thousand dollars were lately paid by a florist of Amsterdam, 
 for the bulb of a new species called " The Citadel of Antwerp." 
 
 In all ages of the world, a Twolip mania has prevailed, under 
 the influence of which men have made the most costly sacrifices of 
 
THE TULIP. 65 
 
 health, reputation and wealth ; yet, the lesson of experience, taught 
 to one generation, have failed to affect the next, and the mania still 
 prevails in all its force. It was this mania — this influence of Two- 
 lips, that lost Adam his possession of earthly immortality, and 
 expelled him from Eden ; and the strong desire for the possession 
 of Twolips has left its memorials upon almost every page of past 
 history ; some, brilliant with heroic deeds of physical strength and 
 mental powers, and others tarnished with vulgar aims and 
 unhallowed measures. In truth, this mania, so prevalent and so 
 controlling, may he considered an important part of human organism ; 
 and an analysis will clearly demonstrate that almost every achieve- 
 ment recorded by the historian, had its incipient germ, if not its 
 budding flower and full ripe fruit, formed and fostered by a passion 
 for Twolips. Speculate as we may upon the autocracy of Despots — 
 the strong governmental arm of Generals — the will of Republican 
 majorities — or the more quiet, yet equally potent sway of a priest- 
 hood : — regard them as we may, as the tangible instruments in the 
 government of the race — or the rulers upon the thrones of Empires — 
 we are forced to acknowledge that there is a " power behind the 
 throne, greater than the throne itself* and that power is blooming 
 
 Twolips THE WORLD IS GOVERNED BY TWOLIPS. 
 
ON PLANTING A TULIP ROOT. 
 
 Here lies a bulb, the child of Earth, 
 Buried alive beneath the clod, 
 
 Ere long to Spring, by second birth, 
 A new and nobler work of God. 
 
 'Tis said that microscopic power 
 
 Might through its swadhng folds descry 
 
 The infant image of the flower. 
 Too exquisite to meet the eye. 
 
 This, vernal suns and rains will swell, 
 'Till from its dark abode it peep, 
 
 Like Venus rising from her shell, 
 Amid'st the spring-tide of the deep. 
 
 Two shapely leaves will first unfold. 
 Then, on a smooth elastic stem. 
 
 The verdant bud shall turn to gold. 
 And open in a diadem. 
 
 Not one of Flora's brilliant race 
 A form more perfect can display ; 
 
 Art could not feign more simple grace ; 
 Nor Nature take a line away. 
 
ON PLANTING A TULIP ROOT. 67 
 
 Yet, rich as morn of many a hue, 
 
 When flushing clouds through darkness strike. 
 The Tuhp's petals shine in dew. 
 
 All beautiful — but none alike. 
 
 Kings, on their bridal, might unrobe 
 
 To lay their glories at its foot ; 
 And Queen's their sceptre, crown and globe, 
 
 Exchange for blossom, stalk and root. 
 
 Here could I stand and moralize ; 
 
 Lady, I leave that part to thee ; 
 Be thy next birth in Paradise, 
 
 Thy hfe to come eternity ! % 
 
 J. M. 
 
TO THE CACTUS SPECIOSISSIMUS. 
 
 BY MRS. SIGOURNEY. 
 
 Who hung thy beauty on such rugged stalk, 
 Thou glorious flower ? 
 
 Who pour'd the richest hues. 
 In varying radiance, o'er thine ample brow. 
 And like a mesh those tissued stamens laid 
 Upon thy crimson lip ? — 
 
 Thou glorious flower ! 
 Methinks it were no sin to worship thee. 
 Such passport hast thou from thy Maker's hand, 
 To thrill the soul. Lone on thy leafless stem. 
 Thou bid'st the queenly Rose with all her buds 
 Do homage, and the green-house peerage bow 
 Their rainbow coronets. 
 
 Hast thou no thought ? 
 No intellectual life ? thou who can'st wake 
 Man's heart to such communings ? no sweet word 
 With which to answer him ? 'Twould almost seem 
 That so much beauty needs must have a soul, 
 And that such form, as tints, the gazer's dream. 
 Held higher spirit than the common clod 
 On \^ hich we tread. 
 
TO THE CACTUS SPEC lOSISSI MU S. 69 
 
 Yet while we muse, a bliglit 
 Steals o'er thee, and thy shrinking bosom shows 
 The mournful symptoms of a wan disease. 
 I will not stay to see thy beauties fade. 
 Still must I bear away within my heart 
 Thy lesson of our own mortality, 
 The fearful withering of each blossom'd bough 
 On which we lean, of every bud we fain, 
 Would hide within our bosoms from the touch 
 Of the destroyer. 
 
 So instruct us, Lord ! 
 Thou Father of the sunbeam and the soul. 
 Even by the simple sermon of a flower. 
 To cling to Thee. 
 
THE HYACINTH. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF KRUMMACHER 
 
 Emily complained of the length of winter. — For she loved flowers 
 dearly, and had a small garden where she cultivated the most beau- 
 tiful with her own hands. Therefore she longed for the departure 
 of Winter and the approach of Spring. 
 
 One day her father said to her, " see, Emily, I have brought you 
 a flower root. But you must cultivate it yourself with care." 
 
 "How can I, dear father," replied the girl. — "The fields are 
 covered with snow, and the ground is as hard as a stone ! " 
 
 Thus she spoke, and she knew not that flowers could be cultiva- 
 ted in vases, for she had never seen it. But her father gave her a 
 small pot filled with earth, and Emily planted the flower root. And 
 she looked at her father and smiled, as if she doubted his sincerity. 
 For she thought that a clear blue sky must be spread over the 
 flowers, and that the gentle breath of air must breathe around them, 
 and did not dream that magnificence could flourish in her hands. 
 
 " For modest youthful simplicity knows not its own power." 
 
 After a few days the earth rose in the vase, and green leaves 
 came forth and appeared in the light — and Emily rejoiced and an- 
 nounced to her father and mother, and to the whole house the birth 
 of the young plant, 
 
THE HYACINTH. 71 
 
 " How little is necessary," said the mother, " to give joy to the 
 heart, as long as it remains true to Nature and simplicity." 
 
 Emily moistened the young plant with water, and smiled on it 
 with delight. The father observed her and said, " this is right my 
 child ! Sunshine must follow the rain and dew. The beam of the 
 smiling eye gives value to every good deed that the hand performs. 
 Your young plant will doubtless thrive Emily." 
 
 Now the leaves came out of the earth, completely formed and 
 shining with lovely green. And EmlTy's joy was increased. " Oh," 
 said she with an overflowing heart, "I will be satisfied if it never 
 blooms." " Contented soul !" said the father. " It is just that more 
 should be given you than you venture to hope for. Such is the 
 reward of modest contentment." And he shewed her the bud of 
 the flower that lay concealed among the leaves. 
 
 Emily's care and affection increased every day as the flower 
 gradually unfolded. With her tender hands she sprinkled water 
 upon it, inquiring whether it were enough or too much, and whether 
 it might not possibly be too cold for the plant. Whenever the Sun 
 looked through the windo\^', she placed it with a light step, in its 
 rays, like the gentle breeze of the morning that plays around the 
 Rose. "Oh, sweet union of the tenderest love and innocence!" 
 said the mother. 
 
 Emily's flower occupied her latest thoughts at night, and her first 
 thoughts in the morning. In her dreams she often saw her Hya- 
 cinth in full bloom, and when she discovered the next morning that 
 it had not blown, and that she had been deceived, she seemed per- 
 fectly unconcerned, and said, smiling, " it may still come to pass." 
 Sometimes she asked her father in what colors the flower would be 
 dressed. And when she had mentioned every shade, she would 
 say in a cheerful tone, " it is all one to me, if it only blooms ; " 
 " Sweet fantasy " said the father, " how beautifully dost thou play 
 around innocent love and youthful hope ! " 
 
 At length the flower bloomed. Twelve bells had opened at the 
 
72 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 dawn of morning. They hung suspended between five dark green 
 leaves in the fulness of youthful beauty. Their color was red, like 
 the reflection of the rising Sun in the delicate tinge of Emily's 
 cheek. A balmy fragrance surrounded the flower. It was a serene 
 March morning. Emily had never conceived such magnificence. 
 Her joy was noiseless and without words. She kneeled before the 
 flower and viewed it in silence. At this moment her father entered 
 and looked at his beloved child and the blooming Hyacinth, and his 
 heart was touched vdth emotion. " Behold " said he, " what the 
 Hyacinth is to you, you are to us, Emily ! " 
 
 Then the maiden sprang up and clasped her father in her arms, 
 and after a long embrace, she whispered, " Oh, my father may I also 
 bloom as beautifully as this flower." 
 
THE SPRIG OF WINTERGREEN. 
 
 BY C. F. HOFFMAN. 
 
 It grew not in the golden clime 
 
 Where painted birds, in bowers iis gay, 
 Their notes on Tropic breezes chime. 
 
 While Nature keeps her hoUday ! 
 'Neath Northern Stars its leaflets first 
 
 Expanded to the wooing air, 
 And, in the lonely wild-wood nurs'd. 
 
 It learn'd the Northern blast to bear. 
 
 Transplanted from its simple home — 
 
 By rocky dell or wind-swept hill — 
 Like birds in stranger climes that roam. 
 
 And keep their native wood-notes still — 
 Still in its glossy verdure dress'd, 
 
 It blooms, unchang'd with change of scene. 
 An emblem on its wearer's breast 
 
 Of Truth and Purity within. 
 
THE BLUE-BELL. 
 
 " I would not be a floweret hung 
 
 On higli in mountain snows ; 
 Nor o'er a castle wall be flung 
 All stately though it rose : 
 I'd breathe no sighs 
 For cloudless skies. 
 
 Nor perfumed Eastern gale, . 
 So I might be 
 A Blue-bell free, 
 
 In some low verdant vale. 
 
 " For there the swains and maidens meet. 
 
 With Summer sport and song. 
 And Fairies lead with unseen feet 
 Their moonlight dance along : 
 Each tiny lip 
 Would gladly sip 
 
 The dew my cup enshrined. 
 And next morn's Bee 
 Would drink from me 
 
 The sweets they left behind. 
 
 " The Laurel hath a loftier name, 
 The Rose a brighter hue, 
 
THE BLUE BELL. 75 
 
 But Heaven and I'd be clad the same 
 In fair and fadeless blue : 
 No blood-stain'd chief 
 Ere plucks this leaf, 
 
 To make his wreath more gay ! 
 Though still its flower 
 Decks village bower. 
 
 And twines the shafts of May." 
 
 Sweet Florence ! may thy gentle breast 
 
 As artless pleasures swell, 
 As those thou deemest still to rest 
 In thy beloved Blue-bell ! 
 And may'st thou feel, 
 Though time shall steal 
 
 Thy beauty's freshest hue, 
 A bhss still shed 
 Around thy head, — 
 
 fuchani^'d like Heaw^u^ own blue ! 
 
 R. T 
 
FLOWEKS. 
 
 BY A. M. M. 
 
 Emblems of purity. 
 Brightest of earth. 
 
 Children of innocence, 
 Blest was thy birth. 
 
 Eden's magnificence, 
 Gems of the heath, 
 
 Love's own interpreters*. 
 I'oesy's wreatli. 
 
 Charming and soothing 
 The desolate heart, 
 
 Peerless and beautiful 
 Surely thou art. 
 
as tliy birth. 
 
FLOWERS AND FAIRIES 
 
 BY KATE. 
 
 » 
 
 It was a midsummer's day in merrie England, the last tones of 
 the village bell striking the hour of noon had ceased to echo in the 
 dim green recesses of the forest, and all was still save nature's 
 music, the low rippling of the streamlet as it glided on, here laying 
 bare the root of some huge old tree, and anon sweeping by in its 
 whirling eddies some broken flower, bearing it far away till its 
 course was lost in the sunny meadows. The very birds had ceased 
 to sing, save some solitary warbler, and sat in languid silence among 
 the many branches ; but a step came bounding upon the green turf, 
 and the birds opened their bright eyes, and peered down from their 
 leafy canopy upon a fair-haired maiden who stood beneath the 
 shadow of a spreading oak. A low warbling rang through the 
 woods. They w^ere discoursing in their own language. 
 
 Sweet Alice Grey ! fifteen summers had passed over her head, 
 and yet the flowers and birds were dearer to her than all beside, 
 and with some old volume of 
 
 <' Tales that have the rime of age 
 And chronicles of Eld." 
 
 she was wont to while time away in the green solitudes. The leafy 
 branches swayed lovingly over her, as, reclining upon a mossy seat, 
 she perused some marvellous tale of Fairy lore, and then she won- 
 
78 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 clered if such another race inhabited the fair Earth, and gazing into 
 the shadowy woods endeavoured to discover their haunts — the 
 magic ring — never dreaming, O most innocent Alice ! that while 
 she looked for other beings, a youthful artist staid his ramble to 
 sketch from the opposite bank the lovely picture before him. As 
 thus she mused the soft air came to her laden with fragrance ; gradu- 
 ally a strain of far away melody stole upon her ear, the brook went 
 murmuring low and sweet at her feet, and Alice was asleep * * * * 
 but she had changed her position and gone to the other side of the 
 " huge oak tree," for there the blossoms grew more luxuriantly. 
 Sweet Violets, the pale Anemone, Wild Rose, and graceful Eglan- 
 tine, were blooming around, enclosed within a ring of the misty 
 brake, seeming with its long arms to encircle these gems of the 
 forest ; and as she looked upon their beauty again, the music came 
 ringing wild and clear till the bright flowers themselves seemed to 
 take up the chorus, and in small sweet voices sing praises to the 
 gentle Sun and mild dews. Alice looked up. The setting Sun was 
 casting a parting glory upon the tree tops, and when she looked 
 again upon the greensward a tiny and beautiful form stood beside 
 each blossom, while with one foot poised upon a Rose stood a being 
 more beautiful than aught human, and the Fairies bowed their 
 heads, when in silvery accents she spoke : — 
 
 " Fair mortal, we have watched you through the long Summer's 
 day when you have visited our presence, and we know your love 
 for the young flowers. Have you never dreamed that the Fairies 
 and flowers are one ? and when they fade from the Earth for a 
 season, we unseen spirits, hover around the pillow of the young and 
 innocent, sending them sweet dreams of the future. We have each 
 our mission, and to those we love best we grant our peculiar gift ; 
 but to you, O tender daughter of a human race, we give the choice." 
 IShe paused, and a hundred sweet voices repeated the chorus. 
 
 " I am the queen of beauty — my gift is the mantling blush upon 
 
FLOWERS ANT FAIRIES. 79 
 
 the maiden's cheek ; I can endow you with loveliness beyond all 
 other mortals : shall I dwell with you ?" 
 
 « Ah, mine is the power of genius," spoke a Fairy from beside 
 the Iris', " who can withstand it ? Beauty will fade, the cheek may 
 pale, the bright eye grow dim, but I endure forever, and monarch's 
 bow before my spells." 
 
 " I can give you an ear attuned to all harmony," murmured a 
 voice from the Lily Bell ; " where other mortals listen for no sound, 
 to you there will be sweetest music ; the low breeze that sweeps 
 around you at eventide will whisper mournful melodies, and every 
 breath of air be laden with unwritten music, wrapping the senses 
 in Elysium. ****** 
 
 One by one the fairies spoke, and then each upon her flowery 
 throne sat in silence ; one alone had been mute. 
 " And has the Violet no gift ?" sighed AUce. 
 " The gift of the Violet is purity, modesty, and a gentle heart," 
 whispered a voice like the dying strain of an ^olian. AUce looked 
 upon the flowers and hesitated : the gifts were written upon her 
 heart, and each appealed, aided by the charm of imagination. Agam 
 she looked upon the Violet, and to her eyes it seemed fan-er and 
 brighter than its companions. She gathered and pressed it to her 
 lips "This is my choice," she said as the air seemed more fra- 
 grant : the music rose with a richer swell, and the passing breeze, 
 as it floated by, wafted the petals of the Rose toward her. * * 
 
 Alice awoke-it was evening-the night wind was sighmg through 
 the branches above her, and the flowers looked up pale and quiet m 
 the clear starlight ; but the fairies had passed away. Silently she 
 gathered her mantle around her and stole away through the dim 
 
 shadows. . , 
 
 And in the greenwood bower there wanders a gentle maiden with 
 a chaplet of Violets wreathed in her sunny hair, a symbol of the pu- 
 rity within. 
 
THE MYRTLE 
 
 BY MONTGOMERY. 
 
 Dark-green and gemmed with flower.s of snow, 
 With close uncrowded branches spread, 
 
 Not proudly high, nor meanly low, 
 A graceful Myrtle reared its head. 
 
 Its mantle of unwithering leaf, 
 
 Seem'd in my contemplative mood, 
 
 Like silent joy, or patient grief. 
 The symbol of pure gratitude. 
 
 Still life, methought, is thine, fair tree ! 
 
 Then pluck'd a sprig, and while I mused, 
 With idle hands, unconsciously. 
 
 The delicate small foliage bruised. 
 
 Odours at my rude touch set free. 
 Escaped from all their secret cells; 
 
 Quick Ufe, I cried, is thine, fair tree ! 
 In thee a soul of fragrance dwells : 
 
THE MYRTLE, 
 
 81 
 
 Which outrage, wrongs, nor wounds destroy- 
 But wake its sweetness from repose ; 
 
 Ah ! could I thus Heaven's gifts employ. 
 Worth seen, worth hidden thus disclose : 
 
 In health, with unpretending grace. 
 
 In wealth, with meekness and with fear, 
 
 Through every season wear one face, 
 And be in truth what I appear. 
 
 Then should affliction's chastening rod 
 Bruise my frail frame, or break my heart. 
 
 Life, a sweet sacrifice to God, 
 
 Out breathed like incense would depart. 
 
 The Captain of Salvation thus, 
 
 When like a lamb to slaughter led, 
 
 Was, by the Father's will, for us. 
 Himself through suffering purified. 
 
THE WATER-LILY. 
 
 M K 8 . H K M A i\ S . 
 
 Oil, beautiful thou nrt, 
 Thou .sculpture-like and stately River-quceii I 
 Cro\Miing the depths, as with the light serene 
 
 Of a pure heart. 
 
 Bright Lily ot the wave ! 
 Rising in fearless grace with every swell. 
 Thou seem'st as if a spirit meekly brave 
 
 Dwelt in thy cell : 
 
 Lifting alike thy head, 
 Of placid beauty, feminine yet free. 
 Whether with foam or pictured azure spread 
 
 The waters be. 
 
 What is like thee, fair flower, 
 The gentle and the hrm ? thus bearing up 
 To the blue sky that alabaster cup, 
 
 As to the shower. 
 
THE WATER LILY. 33 
 
 Oh ! Love is most like thee, 
 The love of woman ; quivering to the blast 
 Through every nen-e, yet rooted deep and fast 
 
 'Midst Life's dark sea. 
 
 And faith — Oh ! is not faith 
 Like thee, too, Lily ? springing into light, 
 Still buoyant, above the billow's might, 
 
 Through the storm's breath ? 
 
 Yes, link'd with such high thoughts, 
 Flower, let thine image in my bosom lie ! 
 Till something there of its own purity 
 
 And peace be wrought. 
 
 Something yet more divine 
 Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed 
 Forth from thy breast upon the river's bed. 
 
 As from a shrine. 
 
THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 BY GEORGE CROLY. 
 
 White hud, in meek heauty so dost lean 
 
 Thy cloister'd cheek as pale as moonlight snow, 
 
 Thou seem'st beneath thy huge, high leaf of green, 
 An Eremite beneath his mountain's brow. 
 
 White bud ! thou'rt emblem of a lovelier thing, 
 The broken spirit that its anguish bears 
 
 To silent shades, and there sits offering 
 To Heaven the holy fragrance of its tears. 
 
THE SNOWDROP, 
 
 L.E.L. 
 
 Thou beautiful new comer, 
 
 With white and maiden brow ; 
 Thou fairy gift from summer, 
 
 Why art thou blooming now ^ 
 This dim and shelter'd alley 
 
 Is dark with Winter green; 
 Not such as in the valley 
 
 At sweet springtime is seen. 
 
 The Limetree's tender yellow. 
 
 The Aspen's silvery sheen, 
 With mingling colours mellow 
 
 The universal green. 
 Now solemn yews are bending 
 
 'Mid gloomy fires around ; 
 And in long dark wreaths descending 
 
 The Ivy sweeps the ground. 
 
 No sweet companion pledges 
 
 Thy health as Dew-drops pass ; 
 No Rose is on the hedges, 
 
 No Violet in the s^rass. 
 
86 THE BOUQUET 
 
 Thou art watching, and thou only, 
 Above the Earth's snow tomb ; 
 
 Thus lovely, and thus lonely 
 T bless thee for thy bloom. 
 
 Though the singing rill be frozen 
 While the wind forsakes the West 
 
 Though the singing birds have chosen 
 Some lone and silent rest ; 
 
 Like thee, one sweet thought lingers 
 In a heart else cold and dead, 
 
 Though the Summer's flowers, and singers, 
 And sunshine, long hath fled. 
 
 'Tis the love for long years cherish'd. 
 
 Yet lingering, lorn, and lone ; 
 Though its lovelier lights have perish'd, 
 
 And its earlier hopes have flv-wn. 
 Though a weary world hath bound it. 
 
 With many a heavy thrall : 
 And the cold and changed surround it. 
 
 It blossometh o'er all. 
 
THE NIGHT-SHADE. 
 
 BARRY CORNWALL. 
 
 Tread aside from my starry bloom ! 
 I am the nurse who feed the tomb 
 
 (The tomb, my child) 
 
 With dainties plied 
 Until it grows strong as a tempest wild., 
 
 Trample not on a virgin flower! 
 
 1 am the maid of the midnight hour ; 
 
 I bear sweet sleep 
 
 To those who weep. 
 And lie on their eyelids dark and deep. 
 
 Tread not thou on my snaky eyes ! 
 I am the worm that the ^^ eary prize, 
 
 The Nile's soft asp, 
 
 That they strive to grasp, 
 And one that a queen has loved to clasp ! 
 
 Pity me ! I am she whom man 
 
 Hath hated since ever the world began ; 
 
 I sooth his brain. 
 
 In the night of pain. 
 But at morning he waketh— and all is vain ! 
 
CO ^V SLIPS. 
 
 HOWITT 
 
 Oh ! fragrant dwellers of the lea, 
 When iirst the wild wood rings 
 With each sound of vernal minstrelsy, 
 When fresh the green grass springs ! 
 
 What can the blessed Spring restore 
 More gladdening than your cliarms 1 
 Bringing the memory once more 
 Of lovely lields and farms ! 
 
 Of thickets, breezes, birds, and flowers ; 
 Of life's unfolding prime ; 
 Of thoughts as cloudless as the hours ; 
 Of souls without a crime. 
 
 Oh ! blessed, blessed do ye sQem, 
 For, even now, I turn'd, 
 With soul athirst for wood and stream. 
 From streets that irlared and burn'd : 
 
t 
 
 THE COWSLIP. 89 
 
 From the hot town, where mortal care 
 His crowded fold doth pen ; 
 Where stagnates the polluted air 
 In many a sultry den. 
 
 And ye are here ! and ye are here ! 
 Drinking the dew-like wine, 
 'Midst living gales, and w^aters clerir, 
 And Heaven's unstinted shine. 
 
 I care not that your little life 
 
 Will quickly have run through, 
 
 And the sward, with Summer children rife, 
 
 Keep not a trace of you. 
 
 For again, again, on dewy plain, 
 
 I trust to see you rise. 
 
 When Spring renew^s the wild wood strain, 
 
 And bluer gleam the skies. 
 
 Again, again, when many Springs 
 Upon my grave shall shine, 
 Here shall you speak of vanish'd things*. 
 To living hearts of mine. 
 
GOSSIP WITH A BOUQUET OF SPRING FLOWERS, 
 
 BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. 
 
 Speak,— Speak, sweet guests. Open your lips in words. 
 'Tis my delight to talk with you, and fain 
 I'd have an answer. I've been long convinc'd 
 You understand me, — though you do not choose 
 To wear your bright thoughts on your finger-tips 
 For all to sport with. 
 
 Lily of the Vale, 
 And you, meek Violet, with your eyes of blue, 
 I call on you the first, — for v> ell I know 
 How prone our village maidens are, to hide 
 Their clear good sense among the city folks. 
 Unless well-urged and fortified to speak. 
 
 O purple Pansy, friend of earliest years. 
 
 You're always welcome. Have you never heard 
 
 From some old grandmother, in cushion' d chair 
 
 Sitting at Autumn, of your ancestors, 
 
 Who on the shelter'd margin of the Thames 
 
 Flourish'd, more vigorous and more fair than you ? 
 
GOSSIP WITH A BOUQUET OF SPRING FLOWERS. 91 
 
 'Twas not the fond garrulity of age 
 
 That made her laud the past, — without respect 
 
 To verity, — for I remember well 
 
 How beautiful they were,— and with what pride 
 
 I us'd to pluck them, when my school was o'er, 
 
 And love to place them, rich with breathing sweets 
 
 Between my Bible leaves, and find them there, 
 
 Month after month, laying their foreheads close 
 
 To some undying hope. 
 
 Bright Hyacinth 
 I'm glad you've brought your little ones. How snug 
 You wrap them in their hoods. But still I see 
 Their merry eyes and their plump cheeks peep out. 
 Ah ! here's the baby in its blanket too : 
 You're a good mother sure. Don't be in haste 
 To take their mantels off. The morn is chill, 
 I'd rather see them one by one come forth. 
 Just when they please. A charming family ! 
 And very happy you must doubtless be. 
 In their sweet promise, and your matron care. 
 
 Gay, graceful Tulip, did you learn in France 
 
 Your taste for dress ? and how to hold your head 
 
 So elegantly ? In the gale yestreen. 
 
 That o'er the parterre swept with sudden force, 
 
 I thought I saw you waltzing, and am sure 
 
 Those steps were taught in Paris. Have a care, 
 
 And do not be too exquisite with those 
 
 You call the dowdy flowers, because, my dear, 
 
 We live in a republic, where the strength 
 
 Comes from beneath, and many a change occurs 
 
 To lop the haughty, and to lift the low. 
 
92 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 Good neighbour Cowslip, — I have seen the bee 
 Whispering to you, and have been told he stays 
 Quite long and late, amid your golden cells. 
 It must be business that he comes upon, 
 Matter of fact, he never wastes an hour. 
 Know you that he's a subtle financier ? 
 And rifles where he can ? and has the name 
 Of taking usury ? So, have a care. 
 And don't invest without good hope of gain. 
 I would not be a slanderer, — but just give 
 A little kind advice. 
 
 Narcissus pale, — 
 Had you a mother, child, who kept you close 
 Over your needle, or your music books ? 
 And never let you sweep a room, or make 
 A pudding in the kitchen ? I'm afraid 
 She shut you from the air and tanning Sun, 
 To keep you delicate, — or let you draw 
 Your corset lace too tight. I would you were 
 As buxom as your cousin Daffodil, 
 Who to the sharp wind turns her tawney cheek, 
 Unshrinking, like a damsel taught to spin. 
 And milk the cows, and knead the bread, and lead 
 An useful life, her nerves by labor strung. 
 To bear its duties and its burdens too. 
 
 Lilac of Persia, tell us some fine tale 
 
 Of Eastern lands. We're fond of travellers. 
 
 Have you no legend of some Sultan proud ? 
 
 Or old fire-worshipper ? Not even a note 
 
 Taken on your voyage ? Well, 'tis monstrous odd. 
 
 That you should let so rare a chance slip by. 
 
GOSSIP WITH A BOUQUET OF SPRING FLOWERS. 93 
 
 While those who never journey'd half as far 
 Make sundry volumes, and expect the w^orld 
 To reverently peruse, and magnify 
 What it well knew before. 
 
 Most glorious Rose, 
 You are the queenly belle. On you, all eyes 
 Admiring turn. Doubtless, you might indite 
 Romances from your own remembrances. 
 They're all the fashion now, and fill the page 
 Of many a periodical. Wilt tell 
 None of your heart-adventures ? Mighty cross 
 To hoard them all so secretly. Well ! well ! 
 I can detect the zephyr's stolen kiss, 
 In your red blush ;— and what's the use to seal 
 Your lips so cunningly, — when all the world 
 Call you the flower of love. 
 
 And now, good bye, 
 A pleasant gossip have 1 had with you, 
 Obliging visitants,— but must away 
 To graver things. Still keep your incense fresh 
 And free to speak to Him, who tints your brows. 
 Bidding the brown mould and unsightly stem 
 Put forth such blaze of beauty, as translates 
 To dullest hearts. His dialect 6f love. 
 
THE VASE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 BY lANTHE, 
 
 Gay treasure-house of every sweet, 
 
 Where loveliness and perfume meet ; 
 
 Where beauty of each form and dye 
 
 Wooes the young breeze with tresses flying, 
 
 And pouring forth its bosom sigh, 
 
 Is far more cherished for its sighing — 
 
 Here the proud heart may lessons find 
 
 Of lowliness and peace of mind ; 
 
 May hear of fame and meekness met 
 
 In the retiring Violet : 
 
 Here flowers which court the warm Sun's rays, 
 
 And die in its too ardent gaze, 
 
 Whisper a moral, if we turn 
 
 When Nature speaks, to hear and learn. 
 
 Each bursting bud, each opening leaf 
 
 Some emblem yields of joy or grief. 
 
 How like the heart wherein are cast 
 
 Bright hopes too fair and frail to last. 
 
 Are all the fresh and fragrant flowers 
 
 That blossom in this world of ours. 
 
 They bloom to fade — but fade to bloom. 
 
 While virtue will survive the tomb. 
 
i^J^, VVV/Z^'^i:^^^^ €^.i^^€Z^M^4yak:^k^~S^^ 
 
 
FLOWERS. 
 
 Flowers, of all created tilings, are the most innocent and simple, 
 and most superbly complex; playthings for cliildren, ornaments for 
 the grave, and the companion of the cold corpse in the coffin. 
 Flo\N ers, beloved by the wandering idiot, and studied by the deep 
 thinking man of science ! Flowers, that of all perishing things are 
 the most perishitig ; yet of aU earthly things, are the most heavenly ! 
 Flowers, that unceasingly expand to Heaven their grateful, and to 
 man their cheerful looks ; partners of human joy, soothers of human 
 sorrow; fit emblems of the victor's triumphs, of the young bride's 
 blushes; welcome to crowded halls, and graceful upon solitary 
 graves ! Flowers are, in the volume of nature, what the expression 
 " God is love," is in the volume of Revelation. 
 
 What a dreary, desolate place would be a face without a smile— 
 
 a feast without a welcome ! Are not flowers the Stars of Earth, and 
 
 are not Stars the flowers of Heaven ? One cannot look closely at 
 
 the structure of a flower w ithout losing it. They are emblems and 
 
 manifestations of God's love to creation, and they are the means 
 
 and ministrations of man's love to his fellow-creatures, for they first 
 
 awaken in his mind a sense of the beautiful and the good. The 
 
 very inutility of flowers is their excellence and great beauty : tor 
 
 they lead us to thoughts of generosity and moral beauty, detached 
 
 from, and superior to, all selfishness, so that they are pretty lessons 
 
 in nature's book of instruction, teaching man that he liveth not 
 
 by bread, or from bread alone, and that he hath another than an 
 
 animal life. 
 
WILD ORANGE GROVES. 
 
 Nothing can be more gladdening to the traveller, Avhen passing 
 through the uninhabited woods of East Florida, than the Avild 
 Orange groves which he sometimes meets \\ ith. As I approached 
 tliem, tlie rich perfume of the blossoms, the golden hue of the fruits 
 that hung on every twig, and lay scattered on the ground, and the 
 deep green of the glossy leaves, never failed to produce the most 
 pleasing eifect on my mind. Not a branch has suifered from the 
 pruning-knife, and the graceful form of the trees retains the ele- 
 gance it received from nature. Raising their tops into the open air 
 they alio\s the uppermost blossoms and fruits to receive the unbro- 
 ken rays of the Sun, which one might be tempted to think are-con- 
 veyed from ilower to flower, and from fiiiit to fruit, so rich and 
 balmy are all. The pulp of these fruits quenches your thirst at 
 once, and the very air you breathe in such a place refreshes and 
 re-invigorates you. Their occurrence is a sure indication of good 
 land, which in the South-eastern portion of that country is rather 
 scarce. The Seminole Indians and poorer squatters feed their 
 horses on oranges, which these animals seem to eat with much 
 relish. The immediate vicinity of a wild Omnge grove is of some 
 importance to the planters, who have the fruits collected and 
 squeezed in a horse-mill. The juice is barreled and sent to differ- 
 ent markets, being in request as an ingredient in cooling drinks. 
 The straight yomig shoots are cut and shipped in bundles, to he 
 used as walking-sticks. 
 
FLOWERS. 
 
 Ye are not silent, beautiful flowers ! 
 
 Children of Summer, of sunshine and showers ! 
 
 Gems of the Earth ! that sweet lessons impart 
 
 In language which speaks, thro' the eye to the heart. 
 
 Youth ! to the maid of thy love, would'st thou speak 1 
 Praise the glance of her eye and the bloom on her cheek *? 
 Gather a Rose bud, 'twill surely convey 
 All that thy heart, in fond language would say. 
 
 Thy faith, will the Violet surely disclose 
 As it blends with thy gift of the young Summer Rose. 
 If with hope, thy fond passion, the lov'd one will bless, 
 The " Hawthorn" her feelings will sweetly express. 
 
 The Lily that's kiss'd by the morn's early gale. 
 The emblem of purity, pride of the vale ; 
 Instructs us as wither'd at evening it lies, 
 That innocence slander'd, droops, withers and dies. 
 
 Thus, beautiful Nature ! these treasures of thine. 
 
 Which, like gems on the bosom of Earth, brightly shine. 
 
 Not only of love, do they silently tell 
 
 But holier lessons in each of them dwell. 
 
 J. B. P. 
 
THE SUN FLOWER. 
 
 Eagle of flowers ! I see thee stand, 
 
 And on the Sun's warm glassy gaze ; 
 With eye like his, thy lids expand, 
 
 And fringe their disk with golden rays : 
 Though fixed on Earth, in darkness rooted there, 
 Light is thine element, thy dwelling air, 
 Thy prospect Heaven. 
 
 So would mine eagle-soul descry. 
 
 Beyond the path where planets run. 
 The light of immortality. 
 
 The splendour of Creation's Sun ; 
 Though sprung from Earth, and hastening to the tomb. 
 In hope a flower of paradise to bloom, 
 I look to Heaven, 
 
 M. 
 
TO THE HAREBELL. 
 
 Sweet flower! though many a ruthless storm 
 
 Sweep fiercely o'er thy slender form, 
 
 And many a sturdier plant may bow 
 
 In death beneath the tempest's blow, 
 
 Submissive thou, in pensive guise, 
 
 Uninjur'd by each gale shalt rise. 
 
 And, deck'd with innocence, remain 
 
 The fairest tenant of the plain : 
 
 So conscious of its lowly state, 
 
 Trembles the heart assail'd by fate; 
 
 Yet, when the freezing blast is o'er, 
 
 Settles as tranquil as before; 
 
 While the proud breast no peace shall find, 
 
 No refuge for a troubled mma. 
 
THE CHINA STAR 
 
 y E. c. 
 
 'Twas late in Autumn — every trace of Summer, 
 Had faded from the landscape long ago ! 
 
 The half-froze streamlet, moved with slow, sad murmur- 
 The withered leaves were flying to and fro 
 
 Before the dreary, shrill, unpitying blast ; 
 
 And all the sky above with clouds were overcast ! 
 
 I looked abroad — and o'er my senses stealing 
 
 A desolation like to Nature's came — 
 A cold, forsaken, emptiness of feeling. 
 
 Which we can better understand than name ! 
 'Twas, as if all I loved, at once had fled — 
 The birds, the fields, the flowers, were unto me as dead. 
 
 Towards my loved garden with sad footstep straying, 
 I turned to gaze, as on the face of death ! 
 
 An early snow to Earth each shrub was weighing. 
 
 And all looked blighted by the Autumn's breath ; 
 
 Not all, for there, half-hid by covering pale, 
 
 A China Star blushed, like bride beneath her veil. 
 
/ ^X..^ ^cA^y 
 
THE CHINA STAR. 101 
 
 I shook the bush, and snow-flakes thickly flying, 
 A score of fresh and blooming flowers arose ; 
 
 Like spirits, where the loved in death are lying, 
 Or, like such friends, as do outlive the snows 
 
 Of sorrow's winter — friendship's flowers to weave. 
 
 When those who seemed more fair, with fortune's summer leave. 
 
 I kissed the flowers — ^nor doth it need conceaUng, 
 Moistened their beauties from a melting eye ; 
 
 For they had touched a fountain fast congealing, 
 Which in the secrets of the heart doth lie : 
 
 Half the chill desolateness of Autumn fled — 
 
 Joy warmed again my breast, and hope rose from the dead. 
 
 I've loved all flowers, aye, from my early childhood— 
 The garden -buds, that opened 'neath my care ; 
 
 The thousand blossoms which enrich the wild wood, 
 And rarer plants, that grace the gay parterre : 
 
 But most of all my love shall ever be, 
 
 Sweet China Star — Autumn's " last, not least," on thee ! 
 
TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. 
 
 BY E. ELLIOTT. 
 
 Thy fruit full well the school-boy knows, 
 
 Wild Bramble of the brake ! 
 So, put thou forth thy small white Rose ; 
 
 I love it for his sake. 
 Though Woodbine's flaunt, and Roses glow 
 
 O'er all the fragrant bowers. 
 Thou need'st not be ashamed to show 
 
 Thy satin-threaded flowers ; 
 For dull the eye, the heart is dull 
 
 That cannot feel how fair, 
 Amid all beauty beautiful, 
 
 Thy tender blossoms are ! 
 How delicate thy gauzy full ! 
 
 How rich thy branchy stem ! 
 How soft thy voice, when woods are still, 
 
 And thou sing'st hymns to them ! 
 While silent showers are falling slow, 
 
 And mid the general hush, 
 A sweet air lifts the little bough, 
 
 Lone whispering through the bush ! 
 
TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. 103 
 
 The Primrose to the grave is gone ; 
 The Hawthorn flower is dead ; 
 The Violet by the moss'd gray stone 
 
 Hath laid her wearied head ; 
 But thou Wild Bramble ! back dost bring, 
 
 In all their beauteous power, 
 The first green days of life's fair spring, 
 
 And boyhood's blossomy hour. 
 Scorn'd Bramble of the brake ! once more 
 
 Thou bid'st me be a boy, 
 To gad with thee the woodlands o'er. 
 
 In Ireedom and in joy. 
 
VIOLETS 
 
 L. E. L. 
 
 Violets ! — deep-blue Violets ! 
 
 April's loveliest coronets! 
 
 There are no flowers grow in the vale, 
 
 Kiss'd by the dew, woo'd by the gale, — 
 
 None by the dew ol' the twilight wet, 
 
 So sweet as the deep-blue Violet; 
 
 I do remember how sweet a breath 
 
 Came with the azure light of a wreath 
 
 That hung round the wild harp's golden chords. 
 
 Which rang to my dark-eyed lover's words. 
 
 I have seen that dear harp roll'd 
 
 With gems of the East and bands of gold ; 
 
 But it never was sweeter than when set 
 
 With leaves of the deep-blue Violet ! 
 
 And when the grave shall open for me, — 
 
 I care not how soon that time may be, — 
 
 Never a Rose shall grow on that tomb. 
 
 It breaths too much of hope and of bloom; 
 
 But there be that flower's meek regret. 
 
 The bending and deep-blue Violet! 
 
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