As I have often done, high in the love
Of the young tyro of the spade and rake,
Look at the eager joyousness and pride

With which the choicest of the little store

Are plucked and offer'd you. The reddest rose-
The tallest pink-and, treasure beyond all,

The matron daisy and her circling brood,

"The hen and chickens." How I love the glance
Of exultation that comes with the gift!
And wish, aye, from my very soul, that each
Young school-immured being could so learn
From Nature's glorious book her marv'lous works-
Pedants might lose their slaves, but worlds win men.

And are not FLOWERS the earliest gift of love?

Do they not, mutely eloquent, oft speak

For absent or for trembling hearts? and bear
Kisses and sighs on their perfumed lips—

And worlds of thought and fancy in their leaves
Touched by the rainbow's dyes? Have ye ne'er prized

Some token flower? an early rose-a bunch

Of young Spring's first and sweetest violets, culled

And given into yours by hands so dear,

That all flowers seemed grown holier from that time?

Have ye ne'er hoarded such a simple gift?

Aye, through long years-e'en when each shrunken leaf

Bore not a semblance to the thing it was,

And the soft fragrance that had once been there

B 2

Had changed from sweet to noisome-and, e'en then, For very fondness could not fling away

Those dim and faded records of the past,

But laid the frail things in their wonted place,

To gaze and dream-and weep upon again?

What slowly-pacing band is gliding 'neath Yon aisle-like avenue of stately elms,

Tow'rds the grey village church ?' 'A fun'ral train

And she they mourn far fairer was than all

Her maiden friends, who oft have gaily met

Her bounding form amid the rustic dance,
And now assemble round her early grave-
The very tree, from whence the wreath was plucked
That crowned her Lady of the May, has given

A chaplet of its flowers, the wan white rose,

To lay upon her pall.'

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And have not FLOWERS,

E'en from the earliest time, been banquet guests?
Have they not wreathed alike the brow and bowl?
Bright'ning and chastening, at once, the scenes

Of revelry to which they gave a grace,
A simple luxury, and a charm beyond

What any aid of human art could bring?.

Beautiful, even in its error, seems

The Pagan offering of flowers as gifts
To the Almighty Power-for what so fair-
So pure, so holy as their fragile forms?
Earth's loveliest offspring, whom the mighty sun

Looks on with smiles-and whom the careful sky
Nourishes with soft rain-and whom the dew
Delights to deck with her enclustered gems,
Which each, reflecting the soft tint it lights,
Gains, while it gives, new beauty.

Oh!-they're fair!

Most wonderful and lovely are they all,-
From our own daisy, "crimson-tipped," that greets

Our English childhood with its lowly look,
To the proud giants of the western world,
And gorgeous denizens of either Ind,
Towering in Nature's majesty and might,
And lifting up their radiant heads to hail
The sun - their monarch- -as he burns above.

Who does not love them? Reader, if thine heart
Be one unblessed by such affection, turn
Far from these lays thy cold and beamless eye,
For less than dull to thee the page will seem.
And if e'en NATURE glads thee not, then Art,
With Nature for her model, will but tire:
But ye-Creation's readers,-Oh! be mine,
If ye do love that glorious book, whose leaves

Interminably spread before our eyes,

Challenge our onward progress in its lore,-
Small though our utmost grasp of it may be-
Then will ye listen to the simple lyre,

That now, with changeful tone, or grave, or gay,

Wakes its wild music to a gentle theme,

Gentle and sweet,-'tis THE ROMANCE OF FLOWERS.

SONG OF THE FLOWERS.

SEE, we come dancing in sunshine and showers,
Like fairies or butterflies-bright young flowers;
O'er vale and o'er mountain, tho' ever so steep,
Go wander-we'll still on your rambles peep.
Far from the city and smoke live we,

With our neighbour, the rugged old forest-tree,
Who, wrapped in his mantle of ivy green,
Looks gay,-for his wrinkles are never seen.

With the zephyrs we dance

'Neath the bright warm sun;

But the moon's pale glance

Bids our sport be done,

Then we close our petals, nor, winking, peep
Till the morning breaks our perfumed sleep.

Oh! are we not beautiful, bright young flowers,
In stately garden or wild wood bowers?

To us doth the lover his love compare,

Then, think ye, can aught be more sweet or fair? Her brow is the lily, her cheek the rose,

Her kiss is the woodbine (more sweet than those),
Her eye in the half-shut violet beams,

When a bright dew-drop on its lustre gleams:
We are wreathed in her hair

By the hands loved best,

Or clustered with care

On her gentle breast.

And oh what gems can so well adorn
The fair hair'd girl on her bridal morn?

Blooming in sunshine, and glowing in showers,
Dancing in breezes-we gay young flowers!
How oft doth an emblem bud silently tell
What language could never speak half so well!
E'en sister flow'rs envy the favoured lot

Of that blue-eyed darling, Forget me not.

Her name is now grown a charmed word,

By whose echo the holiest "thoughts are stirred." Come forth in the spring,

And our wild haunts seek,

When the wood-birds sing,

And the blue skies break :

Come forth to the hill-the wood-the vale

Where we merrily dance in the sportive gale!