Yet to my British heart more dear
Than all the torrid zone.

Thrice welcome, little English flower!
Of early scenes beloved by me,
While happy in my father's bower,

Thou shalt the blithe memorial be;

The fairy sports of infancy,

Youth's golden age, and manhood's prime, Home, country, kindred, friends,-with thee Are mine in this far clime.

Thrice welcome, little English flower!
I'll rear thee with a trembling hand;
O for the April sun and shower,

The sweet May-dews of that fair land,
Where daisies, thick as star-light, stand
In every walk!-that here might shoot
Thy scions, and thy buds expand,

A hundred from one root!

Thrice welcome, little English flower!

To me the pledge of hope unseen:
When sorrow would my soul o'erpower

For joys that were, or might have been,
I'll call to mind, how-fresh and green-
I saw thee waking from the dust;
Then turn to heaven, with brow serene,
And place in God my trust.

THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK.

BY WORDSWORTH.

A ROCK there is whose lonely front
The passing traveller slights;

Yet there the glow-worms hang their lamps,
Like stars, at various heights;

And one coy primrose to that rock

The vernal breeze invites.

What hideous warfare hath been waged
What kingdoms overthrown,

Since first I spied that primrose tuft,

And mark'd it for my own!

A lasting link in nature's chain
From highest heaven let down.

The flowers, still faithful to the stems,
Their fellowship renew;

The stems are faithful to the root,

That worketh out of view;

And to the rock the root adheres,

In every fibre true.

Close clings to earth the living rock,
Though threatening still to fall;
The earth is constant to her sphere,
And God upholds them all:

So blooms this lonely plant, nor dreads

Her annual funeral.

Here closed the meditative strain;
But air breathed soft that day,
The hoary mountain heights were cheer'd,
The sunny vale look'd gay;
And to the primrose of the rock
I gave this after lay.

I sang-Let myriads of bright flowers,
Like thee, in field and grove,
Revive unenvied ;-mightier far,
Than tremblings that reprove

Our vernal tendencies to hope,

Is God's redeeming love;

That love which changed-for wan disease, For sorrow that had bent,

O'er hopeless dust, for wither'd age

Their moral element,

And turn'd the thistles of a curse

To types beneficent.

Sin-blighted though we are, we too,
The reasoning sons of men,
From our oblivious winter call'd,
Shall rise and breathe again;

And in eternal summer lose

Our threescore years and ten.

To humbleness of heart descends
This prescience from on high,
The faith that elevates the just,
Before and when they die;

And makes each soul a separate heaven,
A court for Deity.

THE ROSE.

BY SPENSER.

An! see the virgin rose, how sweetly she Doth first peep forth with bashful modesty, That fairer seems the less ye see her way!

Lo! see soon after, how more bold and free Her bared bosom she doth broad display; Lo see soon after, how she fades away and falls

INFANT SLUMBER.

A HOLY Smile was on her lip,
Whenever sleep was there,

She slept, as sleeps the blossom, hush'd

Amid the silent air.-E. OAK SMITH.

THE VIOLET.

BY MISS L. E. LANDON.

WHY better than the lady rose

Love I this little flower?

Because its fragrant leaves are those
I loved in childhood's hour.

Though many a flower may win my praise,
The violet has my love;

I did not pass my childish days
In garden or in grove.

My garden was the window-seat,
Upon whose edge was set

A little vase-the fair, the sweet-
It was the violet.

It was my pleasure and my pride ;—
How I did watch its growth!

For health and bloom what plans I tried
And often injured both!

I placed it in the summer shower,
I placed it in the sun;

And ever at the evening hour,

My work seem'd half undone.