Imágenes de páginas

Though woodbines 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 frill!

How rich thy branchy stem!
How soft thy voice, when woods are still,

And thou sing'st hymns to them;
While silent flowers are filling slow,

And 'mid the general hush,
A sweet air lifts the little bough,

Lone whispering through the bush I
The primrose to the grave is gone;

The hawthorn flower is dead;
The violet by the moss'd grey stone

Hath laid her weary head;
But thou, wild bramble I back dost bring,

In all their beauteous power,
The fresh green days of life's fair spring,

And boyhood's blossomy hour.
Scorn'd bramble of the brake! once more Thou bidd'st me be a boy,
To gad with thee the woodlands o'er,

In freedom and in joy.



Happy insect ! what can be
In happiness compared to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy Morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup does fill:
'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread,
Nature's self's thy Ganymede,
Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing,
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants belong to thee;
All that summer-hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice:
Man for thee does sow and plow;
Farmer he, and landlord thou!


Thou dost innocently joy

Nor does thy luxury destroy.

The shepherd gladly heareth thee,

More harmonious than he.

Thee country hinds with gladness hear,

Prophet of the ripened year!

Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire;

Phoebus is himself thy sire.

To thee of all things upon earth,

Life is no longer than thy mirth.

Happy insect! happy thou,

Dost neither age nor winter know:

But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung

Thy fill, the flowery leaves among,

(Voluptuous, and wise withal,

Epicurean animal!)

Sated with thy summer feast,

Thou retir'st to endless rest



It springeth on the heath

The forest-tree beneath,
Like to some elfin dweller of the wild;

Light as a breeze astir,

Stemmed with the gossamer, Soft as the blue eyes of a poet's child.

The very flower to take

Into the heart and make
The cherished memory of all pleasant places;

Name but the light harebell,

And straight is pictured well Where'er of fallen state lie lonely traces.

We vision wild sea-rocks,

Where hang its clustering locks, Waving at dizzy height o'er ocean's brink;

The hermit's scooped cell;

The forest's sylvan well, Where the poor wounded hart comes down to drink.

We vision moors far-spread,

Where blooms the heather red,
And hunters with their dogs lie down at noon;

Lone shepherd-boys who keep

On mountain-sides their sheep,
Cheating the time with flowers and fancies boon.

Old slopes of pasture-ground;

Old fosse, and moat, and mound, Where mailed warrior and crusader came;

Old walls of crumbling stone,

Where trails the snap-dragon;
Rise at the speaking of the harebell's name.

We see the sere turf brown,

And the dry yarrow's crown
Scarce raising from the stem its thick-set flowers;

The pale hawk-weed we see,

The blue-flowered chicory,
And the strong ivy-growth o'er crumbling towers.

Light harebell, there thou art,

Making a lovely part
Of the old splendour of the days gone by,

Waving, if but a breeze

Pant through the distant trees,
That on the hill-top grow broad-branch'd and high.

Oh, when I look on thee,

In thy fair symmetry,
And look on other flowers as fair beside,

My sense is gratitude

That God has been thus good,
To scatter flowers, like common blessings wide.

Mary Howitt.

The poetry of earth is never dead;
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead
That is the grasshopper's.


[merged small][graphic]

Here rustic taste at leisure trimly weaves

The rose and straggling woodbine to the eaves;

And on the crowded spot that pales enclose

The white and scarlet daisy rears in rows;

Twining the trailing peas in bunches neat,

Perfuming evening with a luscious sweet;

And sun-flowers planting for their gilded show,

That scale the window's lattice ere they blow;

Then, sweet to habitants within the sheds,

Peep through the diamond panes their gilded heads.



During the latter end of this and the commencement of the following month flies abound, and are frequently a great annoyance in our houses. In such cases our readers will not be unwilling to hear of a simple mode of ridding their rooms of such a nuisance. We quote again from the author of "The Chronicles of the Seasons."

Persons who have never visited the south of Europe during the hot months are doubtless unable to form anything like a correct idea of the annoyance occasioned by flies; but the accounts of travellers who have themselves experienced it are sufficient to show that they are a much more formidable pest in those countries than with us. "It is not," says Arthur Young, "that they bite, sting, or hurt, but they buzz, teaze, and worry; your mouth, ears, and nose, are full of them; they swarm on every eatable; and if they are not incessantly driven away by a person who has nothing else to do, to eat a meal is impossible."

Nor is it only to Spain, Italy, and the other warm regions of Europe, that this nuisance is confined: it seems equally prevalent in the other hot countries of the world; while in the more temperate climes we find the same evil, only in a mitigated form. During the latter part of our summer, the numbers of these insects that enter our apartments, and the active curiosity they display in perching on and running over every object in it, and also the personal annoyances we suffer from them, are sufficiently known. The remedies invented to lessen the inconvenience are almost entirely useless, seeing that if we destroy a large number of these insects by sweetened infusions of green tea, quassia, &c., a number equally large is generally ready to take the place of the destroyed.

It was therefore on a subject of general interest that Mr. Spence wrote, when he communicated to the Entomological Society the account of a mode employed by a friend of his in Florence to remove this drawback to the comfort of existence. He tells us that his curiosity was greatly excited on being told by a gentleman residing in the neighbourhood of that city, that for two or three years he had entirely succeeded in excluding flies from his apartments, though

« AnteriorContinuar »