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B 3 5Sb EST 











''.'. i.^' , ^.u\- 






I'Irs. Ear tie tt B. Heard 





llfice oFt'ie Dull uc Co. 



N9 S.Park riace. 














Mrs. Emelip^e Smitb 


1"0 ********* 

A. A. P. 



B. J. LOSSI.NG. . 

. 42 


Mr.s. H. E. Beechee Stone. 43 

THE ROSE. ... 

L. E. L. . 

. 51 




. 52 


Mary Howrrr. 




. 56 





Mrs. Seba Smith. 

. 59 





J. M. . 

. 66 


Mrs. Sigourney. 

. 68 


From the o 

F Krujlmaciier. 70 


C. F. Hoffma.n. 

. 73 


R. T. . 

. 74 


A. M. M. . 



Kate. . 

. 77 



. 80 


Mrs. Hemajjs. . 

. 82 


George Croly. 



L. E. L. . 

. 85 


Barry Cornwall. 

. 87 


Howirr. . 

. 88 


L. H. Sigour.ney. 

. 90 


Ianthe. . 

. 94 


. 95 


. 96 


J. B. P. 

. 97 



. 98 




E. C. S. . 



E. Elliott. . 

. 102 


L. E. L. 





ROSES, - ........ Fiontispiecr 



TULIPS, - - . .... . - 61 


FLEMISH PINK, - - - ' Tg" 






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 ! 


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. 











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 


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 


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, 


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. 


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, 


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. 


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^, 


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 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; 


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 ! 


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 


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 


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 


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. 


" 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 


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, 


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. 


" 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 


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. 


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 


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. 


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 


" 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. 


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 


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. 


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 


" '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." 


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. 


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, 


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. 



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/^. 



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 


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 

" 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 

" What, little Mary Stephens 1 How absurd ! This is just of a 
piece, Florence, with your other motherly, old-inaidish ways — 


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 


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 

" 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 

'• Well, I never before thought of giving to the poor anything but 


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. 


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 


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. 


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 

" 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." 


" Is she here now ? is she in this city ? " said the gentleman 

" 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. 


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 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. 


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. 



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 ; 


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 


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 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. 


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. 


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. 



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 : 


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. 


1^^l^ / 



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. 


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. 


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." 


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 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." 


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. 


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 


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 



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. 


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. 



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. 


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. 



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, 


" 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 


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." 



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. 


" 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, 


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 


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. 




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- 


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 


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. 



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 : 



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. 


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. 


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. 



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. 



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. 


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. 



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 ! 



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 : 



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. 



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 ? 


'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. 


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. 


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. 



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, 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. 


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. 


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. 


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, 



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. 


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 


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 ! 



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 ! 


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. 


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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