ON THE INDIAN-JASMINE FLOWER.

BY RYAN.

How lovelily the jasmine flower

Blooms far from man's observing eyes;

And having lived its little hour,

There withers, there sequester'd dies!

Though faded, yet 'tis not forgot;
A rich perfume, time cannot sever,
Lingers in that unfriended spot,

And decks the jasmine's grave for ever.

Thus, thus should man, who seeks to soar On learning's wings to fame's bright sky, Far from his fellows seek that lore,

Unheeded live, sequester'd die.

Thus, like the jasmine, when he's fled,
Fame's rich perfume will ever keep,
Ling'ring around the faded dead,

As saints that watch some infant's sleep.

THE EVENING PRIMROSE.

BY BERNARD BARTON.

FAIR flower, that shunn'st the glare of day, Yet lovest to open, meekly bold,

To evening hues of sober gray,

Thy cup of paly gold;

Be thine the offering, owing long,
To thee, and to this pensive hour,
Of the brief tributary song,
Though transient as thy flower.

I love to watch at silent eve

Thy scatter'd blossoms' lonely light:
And have my inmost heart receive
The influence of that sight.

I love, at such an hour, to mark,

Their beauty greet the light breeze chill, And shine, 'mid shadows gathering dark, The garden's glory still.

For such, 'tis sweet to think the while,

When cares and griefs the breast invade,

In friendship's animating smile,

In sorrow's dark'ning shade.

Thus it bursts forth like thy pale cup,
Glist'ning amid its dewy tears,
And bears the sinking spirit up
Amid its chilling fears;

But still more animating far,

If meek religion's eye may trace, Even in thy glimm'ring earth-born star The holier hope of grace!

The hope that, as thy beauteous bloom
Expands to glad the close of day,
So through the shadows of the tomb
May break forth mercy's ray.

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE

BY H. K. WHITE.

MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire!
Whose modest form, so delicately fine,
Was nursed in whirling storms,
And cradled in the wind.

Thee, when young Spring first question'd
Winter's sway,

And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight-
Thee on this bank he threw,

To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene thou openest to the nipping gale,
Unnoticed and alone,

Thy tender elegance.

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of chill adversity, in some lone walk

Of life she rears her head,

Obscure and unobserved;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows, Chastens her spotless purity of breast,

And hardens her to bear

Serene the ills of life.

THE ROSE BUD.

BY KEBLE.

WHEN nature tries her finest touch,
Weaving her vernal wreath,

Mark ye how close she veils her round,
Not to be traced by sight or sound,
Nor soil'd by ruder breath?

Whoever saw the earliest rose
First open her sweet breast?
Or, when the summer sun goes down,
The first, soft star in evening's crown
Light up her gleaming crest?

Fondly we seek the dawning bloom
On features wan and fair,-

The gazing eye no change can trace,
But look away a little space,

Then turn, and lo! 'tis there.

But there's a sweeter flower than e'er
Blush'd on the rosy spray-

A brighter star, a richer bloom,
Than e'er did western heaven illume
At close of summer day.