NIGHT-BLOWING FLOWERS.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

CHILDREN of night! unfolding meekly, slowly, To the sweet breathings of the shadowy hours, When dark-blue heavens look softest and most

holy,

And glow-worm light is in the forest bowers;
To solemn things and deep,

To spirit-haunted sleep,
To thoughts, all purified
From earth, ye seem allied:

O dedicated flowers!

Ye, from the gaze of crowds your beauty veiling, Keep in dim vestal urns the sweetness shrined; Till the mild moon, on high serenely sailing, Looks on you tenderly, and sadly kind.

-So doth love's dreaming heart

. Dwell from the throng apart,

And but to shades disclose

The inmost thought which glows,
With its pure life entwined.

Shut from the sounds wherein the day rejoices,
To no triumphant song your petals thrill,
But send fourth odours with the faint soft voices,
Rising from hidden streams, when all is still.

So doth lone prayer arise,
Mingling with secret sighs,
When grief unfolds, like you,
Her breast for heavenly dew,
In silent hours to fill.

THE VIOLET.

DY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

THE Violet in her green-wood bower,
Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle.

May boast itself the fairest flower

In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.

Though fair her gems of azure hue,

Beneath the dew-drop's weight reclining, I've seen an eye of lovelier blue,

More sweet through watery lustre shining.

The summer sun that dew shall dry,
Ere yet the day be past its morrow;

Nor longer in my false love's eye,

Remain' the tear of parting sorrow.

TO A LITTLE WILD FLOWER.

BY LUCY HOOPER.

I WISH I was this simple flower,
Born 'neath the sky of May,
Brightly to bloom my little hour,
Then quickly pass away.

I wish I was as low and small,
Its destiny to prove ;
For surely none would mind at all,
Who did not mind to love.

I wish that I was guarded so,

From every cruel storm

Mark how each taller plant doth throw

A shelter round its form.

And see ye not this little flower

Can fold its petal bright,

When storms do rise, or clouds do lower,

Or draweth on the night.

It only lifts its meek bright eye,

Through summer days and spring,

It gazes ever on the sky;

Oh! 'tis a happy thing!

I wish that I could change my form,
And blossom on the plain,

Live wild and happy, though not long,
Then die ere Autumn came.

Or still more blest be pluck'd to cheer
Some heart in lonely hour,
That sick of human strife and fear,
Would wish to be a flower!

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.

BY HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

SWEET-SCENTED flower! wont to bloom

On January's front severe,

And o'er the wintry desert drear

To waft thy waste perfume!

Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow;

And as I twine the mournful wreath,

I'll weave a melancholy song;

And sweet the strain shall be, and long,

The melody of death!

Come, funeral flower! who lovest to dwell

With the pale corse in lonely tomb,

And throw across the desert gloom

A sweet decaying smell!

Come, press my lips, and lie with me
Beneath the lowly alder tree :

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
And not a care shall dare intrude
To break the marble solitude,

So peaceful and so deep.

And hark! the wind-god as he flies
Moans hollow in the forest trees,

And, sailing on the gusty breeze,
Mysterious music dies.

Sweet flower, that requiem wild is mine,
It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf-altar of the dead:

My grave shall be in yon lone spot,
Where, as I lie by all forgot,

A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.