Rosemary....Remembrance.

Together they sate by a river’s side,A knight and a lady gay,And they watched the deep and eddying tideRound a flowery islet stray.And, “Oh! for that flower of brilliant hue,”Said then the lady fair,“To grace my neck with the blossoms blueAnd braid my nut-brown hair!”The knight has plunged in the whirling waveAll for his lady’s smile:And he swims the stream with courage brave,And he gains yon flowery isle.And his fingers have cropped the blossoms blue,And the prize they backward bear;To deck his love with the brilliant hueAnd braid her nut-brown hair.But the way is long, and the current strong,And alas for that gallant knight!For the waves prevail, and his stout arms fail,Though cheered by his lady’s sight.Then the blossoms blue to the bank he threw,Ere he sank in the eddying tide;And “Lady, I’m gone, thine own knight true,Forget me not,” he cried.This farewell pledge the lady caught;And hence, as legends say,The flower is a sign to awaken thoughtIn friends who are far away.For the lady fair of her knight so true,Still remembered the hapless lot:And she cherished the flower of brilliant hue,And she braided her hair with the blossoms blueAnd then called it “Forget-me-not!”Mant.

Mant.

To flourish in my favourite bower,To blossom round my cot,I cultivate the little flowerThey call Forget-me-not.This pretty little floweret’s dyeOf soft cerulean blue,Appears as if from Ellen’s eyeIt had received its hue.Though oceans now betwixt us roar,Though distant be our lot,Ellen! though we should meet no more,Sweet maid, Forget me not!Anon.

Anon.

Forget thee, love?—no, not while heavenSpans its starred vault across the sky;Oh, may I never be forgiven,If e’er I cause that heart a sigh!Sooner shall the Forget-me-notShun the fringed brook by which it grows,And pine for some sequestered spot,Where not a silver ripple flows.By the blue heaven that bends above me,Dearly and fondly do I love thee!They fabled not in days of oldThat Love neglected soon will perish,—Throughout all time the truth doth holdThat what we love we ever cherish,For when the Sun neglects the Flower,And the sweet pearly dews forsake it,It hangs its head, and from that hour,Prays only unto Death to take it.So may I droop, by all above me,If once this heart doth cease to love thee!The turtle-dove that’s lost its mate,Hides in some gloomy greenwood shade,And there alone mourns o’er its fate,With plumes for ever disarrayed:Alone! alone! it there sits cooing:—Deem’st thou, my love, what it doth seek?’Tis Death the mournful bird is wooing,In murmurs through its plaintive beak.So will I mourn, by all above me,If in this world I cease to love thee!Miller.

Miller.

TheRosemary is so often mentioned by our early writers, both in prose, poetry, and our oldest dramas, that a long article, possessing great interest to such as love old-fashioned things, might be written upon it. The Rosemary was used both at their feasts and their funerals,—the christening-cup was stirred with it, and it was worn at their marriage ceremonies. Shakspeare has chosen it for the emblem of Remembrance, and who would attempt to change the meaning of a flower which his genius has hallowed, or disturb a leaf over which he has breathed his holy “superstition?”—in memory of him we use the latter word in all reverence. A few years ago it was customary, in many parts of England, to plant slips of Rosemary over the dead; nor has the practice yet fallen altogether into disuse—rural cemeteries will revive these ancient customs. Shakspeare chose the Rosemary as the emblem of affectionate remembrance, for its flowering in winter,—a very poetic and touching allusion. The sweet maniac, Ophelia, says,

There’s Rosemary, “That for remembrance,I pray you love, remember.”I loved thee, and must love thee still,In memory of the pastAmid whate’er of earthly illMy future lot is cast!E’er in my boyhood’s sunny prime,When brightly from the urn of TimeLife’s golden moments fell,Thou wert a peri to my eyes,Sent from Love’s own sweet paradise,In my young heart to dwell.New York Mirror.

There’s Rosemary, “That for remembrance,I pray you love, remember.”

I loved thee, and must love thee still,In memory of the pastAmid whate’er of earthly illMy future lot is cast!E’er in my boyhood’s sunny prime,When brightly from the urn of TimeLife’s golden moments fell,Thou wert a peri to my eyes,Sent from Love’s own sweet paradise,In my young heart to dwell.

New York Mirror.

Remember me, I pray; but notIn Flora’s gay and blooming hour,When every brake hath found its note,And sunshine smiles in every flower;But when the falling leaf is sere,And withers sadly from the tree,And o’er the ruins of the yearCold autumn weeps,—remember me.Edward Everett.

Edward Everett.

The north wind howls; but, sheltered safe, and warm,Howl as it may, we feel secure from danger:The fire burns blue, “betokening a storm”—A brand falls down, “precursor of a stranger.”My thoughtful mind runs o’er the track of years,When, tongs in hand, at our old hearth I sat,And poked the embers, till my mother’s fearsBroke in upon the usual social chat,“You’ll fire the chimney, son!” The sparks would fly,Like little lumps of lightning up the flue,And snap and crackle as they soared on high,As if they felt some pleasure in it too!That fire is out—that hearth is cold—and theyWho felt its pleasant warmth have mostly passed away.MacKellar.

MacKellar.

Anemonewas a nymph, beloved by Zephyr. Flora, jealous of her, banished her from her court and transformed her into a flower, that blows before the return of spring. Zephyr has abandoned this unhappy beauty to the rude caresses of Boreas, who, unable to gain her love, harshly shakes her, half opens her blossoms, and causes her immediately to fade. An Anemone, with these words,Brevis est usus—“Her reign is short”—is touchingly expressive of the transitory nature of beauty.

Inspring the green woods of merry England are covered with the flowers of the Anemone. Turn the eye whichever way you will, there it greets you like “a pleasant thought;” it forms a bed of flowers around the foot of the mighty oak, and below the tangling brambles, which you may peep between, but cannot pass,—there, also, are its pearly blossoms bending. The Greeks named it the flower of the Wind, and so plentiful is it in our country that we might fancy the breeze had blown it everywhere. The gaudy Anemone of the garden, the emblem of forsaken love, is known to all; but our favourites are the uncultivated offspring of the windy woods, which come long before the broad green leaves hang overhead to shelter them.

All flowers will droop in absence of the sunThat waked their sweets.Dryden.

All flowers will droop in absence of the sunThat waked their sweets.

Dryden.

Farewell! I’ve loved thee much!—I feelThat my idolatry was deep;I know my heart can never heal,Till in the grave my passions sleep.Yet I upbraid thee not, my love;’Twas all I had to offer thee,Love in its own simplicity.How could I deem thou wouldst approve?How hope to draw an angel from above?Willis.

Willis.

TheAcacia is a native of North America, from Canada to the Carolinas, and was consecrated by the Indians to the goddess of chaste love. Their bows were made of the incorruptible wood of this tree, and their arrows were pointed with its thorns. About a century ago, this tree was introduced into France by Robin, the botanist. It is a large, handsome tree, of quick growth, elegant foliage, and beautiful, rose-coloured blossoms.

Celestial happiness! Whene’er she stoopsTo visit earth, one shrine the goddess finds,And one alone, to make her sweet amendsFor absent heaven—the bosom of a friend,Where heart meets heart, reciprocally soft,Each other’s pillow to repose divine.Young.

Young.

The friendWho smiles when smoothing down the lonely couch,And does kind deeds, which any one can doWho has a feeling spirit,—such a friendHeals with a searching balsam.Percival.

The friendWho smiles when smoothing down the lonely couch,And does kind deeds, which any one can doWho has a feeling spirit,—such a friendHeals with a searching balsam.

Percival.

Lay this into your breast:Old friends, like old swords, still are trusted best.Webster.

Lay this into your breast:Old friends, like old swords, still are trusted best.

Webster.

O summer friendship,Whose flattering leaves, that shadowed us inOur prosperity, with the least gust drop offIn the autumn of adversity!Massinger.

O summer friendship,Whose flattering leaves, that shadowed us inOur prosperity, with the least gust drop offIn the autumn of adversity!

Massinger.

When thou art near,The sweetest joys still sweeter seem,The brightest hopes more bright appear,And life is all one happy dream,When thou art near.Robert Sweney.

When thou art near,The sweetest joys still sweeter seem,The brightest hopes more bright appear,And life is all one happy dream,When thou art near.

Robert Sweney.

That friendship’s raised on sand,Which every sudden gust of discontent,Or flowing of our passions, can changeAs if it ne’er had been.Massinger.

That friendship’s raised on sand,Which every sudden gust of discontent,Or flowing of our passions, can changeAs if it ne’er had been.

Massinger.

Mossis selected to be the emblem of maternal love, because, like that love, it glads the heart when the winter of adversity overtakes us, and when summer friends have deserted us. Rousseau, so long the prey of his own passions, and tormented by those of other men, soothed the latter years of his life by the study of nature. The Mosses, in particular, attracted his attention. It is these, he would say, that give a look of youth and freshness to the fields, at the moment when the flowers have gone to their graves. In winter the Mosses offer to the eye of the lover of nature their carpet of emerald green, their secret nuptials, and the charming mysteries of the urns and amphoræ which enclose their posterity. It is asserted that without the Mosses, part of our globe would be uninhabitable. At the northern extremity of the earth, the Laplanders cover their subterranean abodes with Moss, and thus defy the longest and most terrible winters. Their numerous herds of reindeer have no other food, yet they supply their owners with delicious milk, nutritious flesh, and warm clothing; thus combining for the poor Laplander all the advantages that we derive from the horse, cow, and sheep.

There is noneIn all this cold and hollow world, no fountOf deep, strong, deathless love, save that withinA mother’s heart.Mrs. Hemans.

There is noneIn all this cold and hollow world, no fountOf deep, strong, deathless love, save that withinA mother’s heart.

Mrs. Hemans.

The docile, swift Reindeer! Oh, when I was a child,I loved all strange fantastic tales, the wondrous and the wild;I read about the “Hundred Nights,” in the Arabian Tales,That tell of Genii, sprites, and dwarfs, of gold and diamond vales.I read of Eastern gardens and palaces so rare,And of Sultans and Sultanas, the cruel and the fair.I read of Robin Crusoe! Ah! how I loved that book!Nor even yet hath its strong charm wholly my mind forsook.I read of voyages without end; of travels many too,And fairy-tales and story-books—of these, good sooth, not few.But I remember, more than all, I loved to think and hearOf thee—thou strong and beautiful—thou swift and good Reindeer!I remember in my earliest home, a dim antique beaufet,And high upon its many shelves, things manifold were set.Some piles of dark old books there were, amid the motley crowd,And when tall enough to reach them, oh! glad was I, and proud.And there I found old Æsop, whose fables we all know,And Cookery-books of ancient dates, most grim and well worn too.These I just peeped at, and put back—and still went groping onDeep into that small mine of wealth that I so late had won.Soon with some daring tugs, I brought a lumbering volume slapDown on the floor! I sat down too, and dragged it on my lap.The binding was antique and worn—the title-page was out,And yet the treasure won from me a child’s exultant shout;For there were pictures many, of beast, and fish, and bird;Andthouwert there, thou good Reindeer, of whom so much I’d heard.And that great heavy ancient book was such a prize to me!It told me of the monstrous whale, and the small good honey-bee;It told me of the elephant, the tiger, the gazelle,Of the vast luxuriant jungles, and the lone, bright desert well;Of humming-birds that sip the dew of flowers as they fly,Of prairies wild, and wide, and green; of snowy mountains high:I read there of the Northern sea, where iceberg islands float,And crush the great three-masted ship, as ’twere a cockle-boat;I read about the harmless seals, and the shaggy Polar bear,And the mighty troops of hungry wolves that roam and riot there.I read of Nature’s glorious works, and wondering went on,And found before me pleasures, whose round will ne’er be done.And in my good old-fashioned book I read of herb and tree,That were food for man, and beast and bird, and for the honey-bee.I read of grove-like banyans, of cedars broad and tall,Of the lofty towering palm, and the Moss and lichen small.And then I found how wondrously the poor Reindeer was fed,When over all his frozen land deep winter’s snow lay spread;HowGodhad bid the barren ground produce this strange small thing,On which whole countless herds of deer are ever pasturing:How, in the woods of scattered pine abundantly it grows,And clothes the earth for many a mile beneath the trackless snows;How the sagacious Reindeer delves, and scents his onward way,Till he reaches his scant mossy food, that doth his toil repay.Oh! see him with his master’s sledge! How swift they glide along,Like a bird, or a fairy car I’ve read of, in some quaint old song.Away! o’er the boundless snowy waste, so glittering and bright:Away!—through the dark pine forest, as gloomy as the night:Away o’er the frozen lake, the river, and the fen,Away! Away!—Ye have winsome steeds, ye little Lapland men!Ay, winsome steeds in sooth, with their antlers branched and high;So sure of foot, and swift of pace, they truly seem to fly.Ye need no palace-stables, no saucy pampered grooms,To stretch your cracking purse-strings, and strut in liveried plumes;No heavy half-year’s bills, for oats, beans, straw, and hay.The forest yields them lodgment, and food, where’er they stray.And thus we find, in every clime, things beautiful and fair,Each fitted to fulfil its task of use and beauty there;And I remember thinking so, when, a little child, I readThe history of the good Reindeer, and the Moss whereon they fed.Louisa A. Twamley.

Louisa A. Twamley.

Mother! dear mother! the feelings nurstAs I hung at thy bosom, clung round thee first.’Twas the earliest link in love’s warm chain—’Tis the only one that will long remain:And as year by year, and day by day,Some friend still trusted drops away,Mother! dear mother! oh! dost thou seeHow the shortened chain brings me nearer thee?Willis.

Willis.

BishopMant thus describes the place where Mosses grow:—

On upland hill, in lowland vale,And where the frigid vapours sail,Mantling the Alpine mountain hoar,On granite-rock, or boggy moor,On peat-clad marsh, or sandy heath,On hillock’s grassy slope; beneathThe hedge-road fence, and on the bank,Fringed with the plumed osier dank,Of streamlet, pool, or waterfall;On wave-washed stone, on plastered wall;On tree of forest, or of fruit,The bark-clad trunk, the heaving root;Or where the spring with oozing slimeSlides trickling down the rifted lime;Or where the grav’ly pathway leadsThrough shady woods, o’er plashy meads:—Exulting in the wintry cold,Their cups the mossy tribes unfold;Fringed, and beneath a coping hidOf filmy veil, and convex lid,On many a thread-like stalk, bespreadWith yellow, brown, or crimson red,In contrast to the leaves of green,A velvet carpet, where the queenOf fairies might in triumph lieAnd view the elvish revelry;Soft as the cygnet’s downy plume,Or produce of the silkworm’s loom,Survey them by the unaided eye,And, if the seeds within you lieOf love for natural beauty true,They’ll shoot enlivened at the viewOf hair or feather-mantled stem,The waving stalk, the fringed gem,Enveloping its chaliced fruit;So fair, so perfect, so minute,That bursting forth, the seeds may seemA floating cloud of vapoury steam.Or by the microscopic glassSurveyed, you’ll see how far surpassThe works of nature, in design,And texture delicately fine,And perfectness of every part,Each effort of mimetic art.A mother’s love—how sweet the name!What is a mother’s love?—A noble, pure, and tender flame,Enkindled from above,To bless a heart of earthly mould;The warmest love that can grow cold;This is a mother’s love.Montgomery.

A mother’s love—how sweet the name!What is a mother’s love?—A noble, pure, and tender flame,Enkindled from above,To bless a heart of earthly mould;The warmest love that can grow cold;This is a mother’s love.

Montgomery.

Dear mother, of the thousand strings which wakenThe sleeping harp within the human heart,The longest kept in tune, though oft forsaken,Is that in which the mother’s voice bears part;Her still small voice bids e’en the careless earTo turn with deep and pure delight to hear.Miss E. J. Eames.

Miss E. J. Eames.

TheDandelion is the most common of flowers. It is found in the four quarters of the globe, near the pole as beneath the equator, on the margin of rivers and streams as well as on sterile rocks. It serves the shepherd instead of a clock, while its feathery tufts are his barometer, predicting calm or storm. The globes formed by the seeds of the Dandelion are used for other purposes. If you are separated from the object of your love, pluck one of those feathery spheres, charge each of the little feathers with a tender thought; turn toward the spot where the loved one dwells; blow, and the aërial travellers will faithfully convey your secret message to his or her feet. If you wish to know if that dear one is thinking of you, blow again; and if a single aigrette is left upon the stalk, it is a proof that you are not forgotten.

As thinksThe mariner of home,When doomed through many a dreary wasteOf waters yet to roam,—Thus doth my spirit turn to thee,My guiding star o’er life’s wild sea.Mrs. Embury.

As thinksThe mariner of home,When doomed through many a dreary wasteOf waters yet to roam,—Thus doth my spirit turn to thee,My guiding star o’er life’s wild sea.

Mrs. Embury.

Dandelion, with globe of down,The schoolboy’s clock in every town,Which the truant puffs amain,To conjure lost hours back again.Howitt.

Dandelion, with globe of down,The schoolboy’s clock in every town,Which the truant puffs amain,To conjure lost hours back again.

Howitt.

the country maid and the pimpernel flower.

“I’ll go and peep at the Pimpernel,And see if she think the clouds look well;For if the sun shine,And ’tis like to be fine,I shall go to the fair,For my sweetheart is there:So, Pimpernel, what bode the clouds and the sky?If fair weather, no maiden so merry as I.”Now the Pimpernel flower had folded upHer little gold star in her coral cup,And unto the maidThus her warning said:“Though the sun smile down,There’s a gathering frownO’er the checkered blue of the clouded sky;So tarry at home, for a storm is nigh.”The maid first looked sad and then looked cross,Gave her foot a fling, and her head a toss;“Say you so, indeed,You mean little weed?You’re shut up for spite,For the blue sky is bright,To more credulous people your warnings tell,I’ll away to the fair;—good day, Pimpernel.”“Stay at home! quoth the flower?—In sooth, not I;I’ll don my straw hat with a silken tie;O’er my neck so fairI’ll a kerchief wear,White, chequered with pink,And then—let me think,I’ll consider my gown, for I’d fain look well:”So saying, she stepped o’er the Pimpernel.Now the wise little flower, wrapped safe from harm,Sat fearlessly waiting the coming storm;Just peeping betweenHer snug cloak of green,Lay folded up tight,Her robe so bright;Though ’broidered with purple, and starred with gold,No eye might its bravery then behold.The fair maiden straight donned her best array,And forth to the festival hied away;But scarce had she goneEre the storm came on;And, ’mid thunder and rain,She cried oft and again,“Oh! would I had minded yon boding flower,And were safe at home from the pelting shower.”Now, maidens, the tale that I tell would say,Don’t don fine clothes on a doubtful day,Nor ask advice, when, like many more,You had “made up your minds” some time before.Louisa A. Twamley.

Now the Pimpernel flower had folded upHer little gold star in her coral cup,And unto the maidThus her warning said:“Though the sun smile down,There’s a gathering frownO’er the checkered blue of the clouded sky;So tarry at home, for a storm is nigh.”

The maid first looked sad and then looked cross,Gave her foot a fling, and her head a toss;“Say you so, indeed,You mean little weed?You’re shut up for spite,For the blue sky is bright,To more credulous people your warnings tell,I’ll away to the fair;—good day, Pimpernel.”

“Stay at home! quoth the flower?—In sooth, not I;I’ll don my straw hat with a silken tie;O’er my neck so fairI’ll a kerchief wear,White, chequered with pink,And then—let me think,I’ll consider my gown, for I’d fain look well:”So saying, she stepped o’er the Pimpernel.

Now the wise little flower, wrapped safe from harm,Sat fearlessly waiting the coming storm;Just peeping betweenHer snug cloak of green,Lay folded up tight,Her robe so bright;Though ’broidered with purple, and starred with gold,No eye might its bravery then behold.

The fair maiden straight donned her best array,And forth to the festival hied away;But scarce had she goneEre the storm came on;And, ’mid thunder and rain,She cried oft and again,“Oh! would I had minded yon boding flower,And were safe at home from the pelting shower.”

Now, maidens, the tale that I tell would say,Don’t don fine clothes on a doubtful day,Nor ask advice, when, like many more,You had “made up your minds” some time before.

Louisa A. Twamley.

TheRed Poppy is the floral symbol of consolation. The White Poppy is supposed to express, “My bane, my antidote.” The juice extracted from these plants is employed to soothe the restless invalid to sleep, and to ease the pangs of disease. According to the mythology of the Grecians, the Poppy owed its origin to Ceres, who created it to assuage her grief, during her search after her daughter Proserpine, who was carried off by Pluto. The Poppy is extensively cultivated in Europe, for the purpose of making opium from it. Many species are cultivated in the garden. The double flowers possess surpassing beauty, whether we consider their delicate texture, elegance of shape, or variety of colouring. In the time of Gesner, the celebrated botanist of Switzerland, the village Damons and Chloes proved the sincerity of their lovers by placing in the hollow of the palm of the left-hand, a petal, or flower-leaf of the Poppy, which, on being struck by the other hand, was broken with a sharp sound, which denoted true attachment; but faithlessness, when it failed to snap.

The world has closed its eyes and fallen asleep;AndGodlooks down from His eternal throneAnd shuts the eye that long was wont to weep,And makes the wretched feel they’re not alone.MacKellar.

The world has closed its eyes and fallen asleep;AndGodlooks down from His eternal throneAnd shuts the eye that long was wont to weep,And makes the wretched feel they’re not alone.

MacKellar.

pride and the poppies.—their grandeur and fall.

“We little Red-caps are among the corn,Merrily dancing at early morn,We know that the farmer hates to seeOur saucy red faces; but here are we!“We pay no price for our summer coats,Like those slavish creatures, barley and oats;We don’t choose to be ground and eat,Like our heavy-head neighbour, Gaffer Wheat.“Who dare thrashus, we should like to know!Grind us, and bag us, and use us so!Let meaner and shabbier things than weSo stupidly bend to utility!”So said little Red-cap, and all the routOf the Poppy-clan set up a mighty shout;Mighty for them, but ifyouhad heardYou had thought it the cry of a tiny bird.So the Poppy-folk flaunted it over the field,In pride of grandeur they nodded and reeled;And shook out their jackets, till naught was seen,But a wide, wide shimmer of scarlet and green.The Blue-bottle sat on her downy stalk,Quietly smiling at all their talk.The Marigold still spread her rays to the sun,And the purple Vetch climbed up to peep at the fun.The whimsical Bugloss, vain, beautiful thing,Whose flowers, like the orient butterfly’s wing,Are deep, glowing azure, was eager to shedO’er her yet unoped buds a delicate red;First crimson, then purple, then loveliest blue;E’en thrice doth she change her chameleon hue;And she pities the flowers that grow merrily by,Because in one dress they must bud, bloom, and die.The homely Corn-cockle cared nothing, not she,For the arrogance, bluster, and poor vanityOf the proud Poppy-tribe, but she flourished and grew,Content with herself, and her plain purple hue.The sun went down, and rose bright on the morrow,To some bringing joy, and to others e’en sorrow,But blithe was the rich rosy farmer that mornWhen he went with his reapers among the corn.Forth went they betimes, a right merry band,The sickles were glancing in each strong hand,And the wealthy farmer came trotting along,On his stiff little pony, mid whistle and song.He trotted along, and he cracked his joke,And chatted and laughed with the harvest-folk;For the weather was settled, barometers high,And heavy crops gladdened his practised eye.“We’ll cut this barley to-day,” quoth he,As he tied his white pony under a tree,“Next to the upland wheat, and then the oats.”How the Poppies shook in their scarlet coats!Ay, shook with laughter, not fear, for theyNever dreamed they too should be swept away,And their laughter was spite, to think that allTheir “useful” neighbours were doomed to fall.They swelled and bustled with such an air,The corn-fields quite in commotion were,And the farmer cried, glancing across the grain,“How those rascally weeds have come up again!”“Ha! ha!” laughed the Red-caps, “ha! ha! what a fussMust the poorweedsbe in! how they’re envyingus!”But their mirth was cut short by the sturdy strokesThey speedily met from the harvest-folks.And when low on the earth each stem was laid,And the round moon looked on the havoc made,A Blue-bottle propped herself half erect,And made a short-speech—to this effect.“My dying kins-flowers, and fainting friends,The same dire fate alike attendsThose who in scarlet or blue are dressed;Then how silly the pride that so late possessed“Our friends the Red-caps! how low they lie,Who were lately so pert, and vain, and high!They sneered at us and our plain array;Are we now a whit more humbled than they?“They scorned our neighbours:—the goodly cornWas the butt of their merriment eve and morn,They lived on its land, from its bounty fed,But a word of thanks they never have said.“And which is the worthiest now, I pray?Have ye not learned enough to-day?Is not the corn sheafed up with care,And are not the Poppies left dying there?“The corn will be carried and garnered upTo gladden man’s heart both with loaf and cup;And some of the seed the land now yieldsWill be brought again to its native fields,“And grow and ripen and wave next yearAs richly as this hath ripened here;And we poor weeds, though needed not,Perchance may spring on this very spot.“But let us be thankful and humble too;Not proud and vain of a gaudy hue,Ever remembering, though meanly drest,Thatusefulnessis of all gifts the best.”Louisa A. Twamley.

“We little Red-caps are among the corn,Merrily dancing at early morn,We know that the farmer hates to seeOur saucy red faces; but here are we!

“We pay no price for our summer coats,Like those slavish creatures, barley and oats;We don’t choose to be ground and eat,Like our heavy-head neighbour, Gaffer Wheat.

“Who dare thrashus, we should like to know!Grind us, and bag us, and use us so!Let meaner and shabbier things than weSo stupidly bend to utility!”

So said little Red-cap, and all the routOf the Poppy-clan set up a mighty shout;Mighty for them, but ifyouhad heardYou had thought it the cry of a tiny bird.

So the Poppy-folk flaunted it over the field,In pride of grandeur they nodded and reeled;And shook out their jackets, till naught was seen,But a wide, wide shimmer of scarlet and green.

The Blue-bottle sat on her downy stalk,Quietly smiling at all their talk.The Marigold still spread her rays to the sun,And the purple Vetch climbed up to peep at the fun.

The whimsical Bugloss, vain, beautiful thing,Whose flowers, like the orient butterfly’s wing,Are deep, glowing azure, was eager to shedO’er her yet unoped buds a delicate red;

First crimson, then purple, then loveliest blue;E’en thrice doth she change her chameleon hue;And she pities the flowers that grow merrily by,Because in one dress they must bud, bloom, and die.

The homely Corn-cockle cared nothing, not she,For the arrogance, bluster, and poor vanityOf the proud Poppy-tribe, but she flourished and grew,Content with herself, and her plain purple hue.

The sun went down, and rose bright on the morrow,To some bringing joy, and to others e’en sorrow,But blithe was the rich rosy farmer that mornWhen he went with his reapers among the corn.

Forth went they betimes, a right merry band,The sickles were glancing in each strong hand,And the wealthy farmer came trotting along,On his stiff little pony, mid whistle and song.

He trotted along, and he cracked his joke,And chatted and laughed with the harvest-folk;For the weather was settled, barometers high,And heavy crops gladdened his practised eye.

“We’ll cut this barley to-day,” quoth he,As he tied his white pony under a tree,“Next to the upland wheat, and then the oats.”How the Poppies shook in their scarlet coats!

Ay, shook with laughter, not fear, for theyNever dreamed they too should be swept away,And their laughter was spite, to think that allTheir “useful” neighbours were doomed to fall.

They swelled and bustled with such an air,The corn-fields quite in commotion were,And the farmer cried, glancing across the grain,“How those rascally weeds have come up again!”

“Ha! ha!” laughed the Red-caps, “ha! ha! what a fussMust the poorweedsbe in! how they’re envyingus!”But their mirth was cut short by the sturdy strokesThey speedily met from the harvest-folks.

And when low on the earth each stem was laid,And the round moon looked on the havoc made,A Blue-bottle propped herself half erect,And made a short-speech—to this effect.

“My dying kins-flowers, and fainting friends,The same dire fate alike attendsThose who in scarlet or blue are dressed;Then how silly the pride that so late possessed

“Our friends the Red-caps! how low they lie,Who were lately so pert, and vain, and high!They sneered at us and our plain array;Are we now a whit more humbled than they?

“They scorned our neighbours:—the goodly cornWas the butt of their merriment eve and morn,They lived on its land, from its bounty fed,But a word of thanks they never have said.

“And which is the worthiest now, I pray?Have ye not learned enough to-day?Is not the corn sheafed up with care,And are not the Poppies left dying there?

“The corn will be carried and garnered upTo gladden man’s heart both with loaf and cup;And some of the seed the land now yieldsWill be brought again to its native fields,

“And grow and ripen and wave next yearAs richly as this hath ripened here;And we poor weeds, though needed not,Perchance may spring on this very spot.

“But let us be thankful and humble too;Not proud and vain of a gaudy hue,Ever remembering, though meanly drest,Thatusefulnessis of all gifts the best.”

Louisa A. Twamley.

Will you drink of this fountain, and sorrow forget?Has the past been so blest that you hesitate yet?Can love, when ’tis slighted, still cherish a token,Or hearts still forgive, that unkindness has broken?Percival.

Percival.

From a Poppy I have takenMortal’s balm and mortal’s bane;Juice that, creeping through the heart,Deadens every sense of smart;Doomed to heal or doomed to kill,Fraught with good or fraught with ill.Mrs. Robinson.

Mrs. Robinson.

TheAcanthus blooms in greatest perfection by the great rivers of hot climates. Among the ancients, it was a favourite, and they adorned their furniture, vases, and costly dresses, with its elegant leaves. When any obstacle obstructs the growth of the Acanthus, it puts forth fresh force and grows with additional vigour. Thus genius is strengthened by the difficulties which it cannot overcome. Callimachus, an ancient architect, derived the idea of the Corinthian capital, from seeing the leaves of an Acanthus surrounding a basket which had been set upon the ground, and impeded the regular growth of the plant.

Tired at first sight with what the muse imparts,In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts,While from the bounded level of our mindShort views we take, nor see the length behind;But, more advanced, behold with strange surpriseNew distant scenes of endless science rise.Pope.

Pope.

For though I must confess an artist canContrive things better than another man,Yet when the task is done, he finds his painsSought but to fill his belly with his brains.Is this the guerdon due to liberal arts,To admire the head and then to starve the parts?Timely prevention though discreetly usedBefore the fruits of knowledge were abused.When learning has incurred a fearful damp,To save our oil, ’tis good to quench the lamp.Lady Alimony.

Lady Alimony.

She had readHer father’s well-filled library with profit,And could talk charmingly. Then she would sing,And play too, passably, and dance with spirit.She sketched from nature well, and studied flowers,Which was enough alone to love her for.Yet she was knowing in all needlework,And shone in dairy and in kitchen too,As in the parlour.James N. Barker.

James N. Barker.

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