The broad leaves spread, the small buds grew How slow they seem'd to be!

At last there came a tinge of blue, 'Twas worth the world to me!

At length the perfume fill'd the room,
Shed from their purple wreath;
No flower has now so rich a bloom,
Has now so sweet a breath.

I gather'd two or three-they seem'd
Such rich gifts to bestow!

So precious in my sight, I deem'd
That all must think them so.

Ah! who is there but would be fain
To be a child once more;
If future years could bring again
All that they brought before?

My heart's world has been long o'erthrown; It is no more of flowers;

Their bloom is pass'd, their breath is flown; Yet I recall those hours.

Let nature spread her loveliest,
By spring or summer nurst:
Yet still I love the violet best,
Because I loved it first.

FIELD FLOWER S.

BY CAMPBELL.

YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true, Yet, wildings of nature, I dote upon you,

For ye waft me to summers of old,

When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight,

And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd my sight,

Like treasures of silver and gold.

I love you for lulling me back into dreams Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams,

And of birchen glades breathing their balm, While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine re

mote,

And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon s

note

Made music that sweeten'd the calm.

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune
Than

ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June: Of old ruinous castles ye tell,

Where I thought it delightful your beauties to

find,

When the magic of nature first breathed on my

mind,

And your blossoms were part of the speli.

Even now what affections the violet awakes!

What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes,

Can the wild water-lily restore!

What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks, And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks,

In the vetches that tangled their shore !

Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear,

Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear,

Had scathed my existence's bloom;

Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless

stage,

With the visions of youth to revisit my age,

And I wish you to grow on my tomb.

IN EASTERN LANDS.

BY. J. G. PERCIVAL.

IN Eastern lands they talk in flowers,

And they tell in a garland their loves and cares; Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers, On its leaves a mystic language bears.

The rose is a sign of joy and love,

Young blushing love in its earliest dawn;
And the mildness that suits the gentle dove,
From the myrtle's snowy flower is drawn.
Innocence shines in the lily's bell,

Pure as the heart in its native heaven;
Fame's bright star and glory's swell,
By the glossy leaf of the bay are given.

The silent, soft, and humble heart

In the violet's hidden sweetness breathes; And the tender soul that cannot part,

A twine of evergreen fondly wreathes.

The cypress that daily shades the grave,
Is sorrow that mourns her bitter lot,
And faith that a thousand ills can brave

Speaks in thy blue leaves-forget-me-not

Then gather a wreath from the garden bowers And tell the wish of thy heart in flowers.

THE HONEYSUCKLE.

BY THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON,

SEE the honeysuckle twine

Round this casement:-'tis a shrine
Where the heart doth incense give,
And the pure affections live
In the mother's gentle breast
By her smiling infant press'd.

Blessed shrine! dear, blissful home!
Source whence happiness doth come!
Round by the cheerful hearth we meet
All things beauteous-all things sweet
Every solace of man's life,

Mother, daughter,-sister,-wife!

England, isle of free and brave,
Circled by the Atlantic wave!
Though we seek the fairest land
That the south wind ever fann'd,
Yet we cannot hope to see
Homes so holy as in thee.

As the tortoise turns its head
Towards its native ocean-bed,
Howsoever far it be

From its own beloved sea,
Thus, dear Albion, evermore
Do we turn to seek thy shore !