THE ALPINE VIOLET.

BYRON.

The spring is come, the violet is gone,

The first-born child of the early sun;

With us she is but a winter flower,

The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower; And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue,

To the youngest sky of the self-same hue

But when the spring comes, with her host Of flowers, that flower, beloved the most, Shrinks from the crowd, that may confuse Her heavenly odors and virgin hues.

Pluck the others, but still remember
Their herald, out of dire December;
The morning star of all the flowers,
The pledge of daylight's lengthened hours;
And, 'mid the roses, ne'er forget

The virgin, virgin violet.

Did you but know, when bathed in dew
How sweet the little violet grew

Amidst the thorny brake;

How fragrant the ambient air
O'er beds of many flowers fair,
Your pillows you'd forsake.

J. HEYRICK.

THE WINTER NOSEGAY.

MRS. SIGOURNEY.

Flowers, fresh flowers, with your fragrance free,
Have you come in your queenly robes to me?
Me have you sought, from your fair retreat,
With your greeting lips and your dewy feet,
And the heavenward glance of your radiant eye,
Like angel-guests from a purer sky?

But where did ye hide when the frost comes near, And your many sisters were pale with fear? Where did ye hide, with a cheek as bright

As gleamed amid Eden's vales of light,

Ere the wiles of the Tempter its bliss had shamed, Or the terrible sword o'er the gateway flamed? Flowers sweet flowers-with your words of cheer,

Thanks to the friend who hath brought you here;

For this, may her blossoms of varied dye,

Be the earliest born 'neath the vernal sky;
And she be led by thy whispered lore,

To the love of that land where they fade no more.

'No more, rich rose, on thy heaving breast, The honey-bee fold his wings to rest!'

WREATHIS.

ANON.

Weave thee a wreath of woodbine, child,

'T will suit thy infant brow;

It runs up in the woodland wild,

As tender and as frail as thou.

I saw him not till his manly brow

Was clouded with thought and care; And the smile of youth, and its beauty, now No longer wantoned there

Go, twine thee a crown of the ivy tree,
And gladden thy loaded breast:
Bright days may yet shine out for thee,
And thy bosom again know rest.

Long years rolled on, and I saw again
His form in hoary age;

His forehead was deeply furrowed then,
In life's last feeble stage.

O, be thy crown, old man, I said,
Of the yew and the cypress made;
A garland meet for thy silvered head
Ere it low in the tomb be laid.

THE POPPY.

Fabulous history tells us that the POPPY was sacred to the goddess Ceres; because, in her distress for the loss of her daughter Proserpine, who was borne away by Pluto, Jupiter gave her poppies to eat, that she might slumber, and forget her sorrows. The palace of Somnus or Sleep (an infernal deity) is represented by Ovid, as a dark and dismal cave, at the entrance of which grew poppies and other somniferous plants. The poppy has been celebrated on account of its narcotic quality; it yields a juice, which is used to relieve pain and procure sleep; hence it made the symbol of consolation.

OVID.

Near the Cimmerians, lurks a cave, in steep
And hollow hills, the mansion of dull Sleep.
Before the entrance, fruitful poppy grows;
With numerous simples, from whose juicy birth
Night gathers sleep, and sheds it o'er the earth.

MURPHY.

Kind sleep affords

The only boon the wretched mind can feel;
A momentary respite from despair.

JOSEPH TAYLOR.

When jocund summer leads her laughing hours,
And decks her zone with odorific flowers,
"T is then thy charms attract the vulgar gaze,
And tempt the view with meretricious blaze;
Caught by thy glare, with pleasure they behold
Thy glowing crimson melting 'nto gold.

In vain to nobler minds thy love is spread,

Thy painted front, thy cup of glowing red;
Beneath thy bloom, such noxious vapors lie,
That when obtained, and smelt, we loathe and fly.
Thus pleasure spreads for all her silken joys,
And oft, too late, the painted prospect cloys.

CONSOLATIONS OF SLEEP.

YOUNG.

Man's rich restorative; his balmy bath,
That supples, lubricates, and keeps in play,
The various movements of this nice machine,
Which asks such frequent periods of repair.
When tired with vain rotations of the day,
Sleep winds us up for the succeeding dawn;
Fresh we spin on, till sickness clog our wheels,
Or death quite breaks the spring, and motion ends.