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, I gather'd two or three-they seem'd So precious in my sight, I deem'd Ah! who is there but would be fain 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, 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 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; Pure as the heart in its native heaven; 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, 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 Blessed shrine! dear, blissful home! Mother, daughter,-sister,-wife! England, isle of free and brave, As the tortoise turns its head From its own beloved sea, |