Our little gardens, side by side,

Each border'd round with London pride Some six feet long, and three feet wide, To us a large estate !

The apple and the damson trees,
The cottage shelter for our bees;
I see them and beyond all these,
A something dearer still;

I see an eye serenely blue,

A cheek of girlhood's freshest hue,
A buoyant heart, a spirit true,
Alike in good and ill.

Sweet sister, thou wert all to me,
And I sufficient friend for thee:
Where was a happier twain than we,
Who had no mate beside?
Like wayside flowers in merry May,
Our pleasures round about us lay;
A joyful morning had our day,
Whate'er our eve betide!

HEART'S-EASE.

BY MRS. SHERIDAN.

IN gardens oft a beauteous flower there grows, By vulgar eyes unnoticed and unseen;

In sweet serenity it humbly blows,

And rears its purple head to deck the green.

This flower, as nature's poet sweetly sings,
Was once milk-white, and heart's ease was its

name,

Till wanton Cupid poised its roseate wings,
A vestal's sacred bosom to inflame.

With treacherous aim the god his arrow drew, Which she with icy coldness did repel Rebounding thence with feathery speed it flew, Till on this lonely flower, at last, it fell.

Heart's-ease no more the wandering shepherċ found;

No more the nymphs its snowy form possess; Its white now changed to purple by love 's wound, Heart's-ease no more,-'tis love-in-idleness.

TO THE SWEET-BRIER.

BY J. G. C. BRAINARD.

OUR sweet autumnal western-scented wind
Robs of its odours none so sweet a flower,
In all the blooming waste it left behind,
As that sweet-brier yields it; and the shower
Wets not a rose that buds in beauty's bower
One half so lovely; yet it grows along

The poor girl's pathway; by the poor man's door.

Such are the simple folks it dwells among; And humble as the bud, so humble be the song.

I love it, for it takes its untouch'd stand
Not in the vase that sculptors decorate;
Its sweetness all is of my native land;
And e'en its fragrant leaf has not its mate
Among the perfumes which the rich and great
Bring from the odours of the spicy East.

You love your flowers and plants, and will you hate

The little four-leaved rose that I love best, That freshest will awake, and sweetest go to rest?

MOTHER'S DIRGE OVER HER CHILD.

BY D. M. MOIR.

BRING me flowers all young and sweet,
That I may strew the winding-sheet,
Where calm thou sleepest, baby fair,
With roseless cheek and auburn hair.

Bring me the rosemary, whose breath
Perfumed the wild and desert heath;
The lily of the vale, which too,
In silence and in beauty grew.

Bring cypress from some sunless spot,
Bring me the blue forget-me-not;
That I may strew them o'er thy bier,
With long-drawn sigh and gushing tear.

Oh, what upon this earth doth prove
So steadfast as a mother's love!
Oh, what on earth can bring relief
Or solace to a mother's grief!

No more my baby shalt thou lie,
With drowsy smiles and half-shut eye,
Pillow'd upon my fostering breast,
Serenely sinking into rest!

Thy grave must be thy cradle now;

The wild flowers o'er thy breast shall glow, While still my heart, all full of thee,

In widow'd solitude shall be.

No taint of earth, no thought of sin,
E'er dwelt thy stainless breast within,
And God hath laid thee down to sleep,
Like a pure pearl below the deep.

Yea! from mine arms thy soul hath flown
Above, and found the heavenly throne,
To join that blest angelic ring,
That aye around the altar sing.

I thought, when years had roll'd away,
That thou wouldst be my age's stay;
And often have I dream'd to see
The boy-the youth-the man in thee!

But thou hast past! for ever gone,
To leave me childless and alone,
Like Rachel frowning tear on tear,
And looking not for comfort here!

Farewell, my child, the dews shall fall,
At noon and evening, o'er thy pall;
And daisies, when the vernal year
Revives, upon thy turf appear.