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Flowers to the fair! to you these flowers I bring,
No marvel woman should love flowers : they bear
• Flowers are the alphabet of angels - whereby They write on hills and fields mysterious truths.
Flowers, too, are stars of earth, the
REV. ROBERT CAUNTER.
How beautiful the rose, as it unfolds its vernal
dyes, And breathes a holy fragrance round, like incense
from the skies; Cast to the breeze the sparkling dews that glitter
on its stem, And wreaths around its blushing brows a crystal
But while the bee with honeyed lip salutes the
vernal flower, That 's daily brightened by the sun, and cherished
by the shower, The blast of desolation comes and sweeps it to the
dust, When all its beauties perish, as all mortal beauties
Behold that gentle maiden, in the fair fresh morn
of youth, Upon her cheek the holy glow of innocence and
truth; The sudden shock of sorrow strikes - the blush no
longer glows, But verifies the fate of her fragile type, the ross
Destruction comes alike to all, the meanest av
'T is oft the harbinger of woe, as suffering is to
rest; Here beauty is the sure but smiling herald of
decay, As oftentimes the darkest night succeeds the
To a White Chrysanthemum.
Fair gift of friendship! and her ever bright
And faultless image! welcome now thou art, In thy pure loveliness, thy robes of white,
Speaking a moral to the feeling heart; Unscathed by heats – by wintry blasts unmoved, Thy strength thus tested, and thy charm improved.
Emblem of innocence, which fearless braves
Life's dreariest scenes, its rudest storm derides, And floats calmly on o'er troubled waves,
As where the peaceful streamlet smoothly glides; Thou 'rt blooming now, as beautiful and clear As other blossoms do when spring is here.
Symbol of hope, still banishing the gloom
Hung o'er the mind by stern December's reign! Thou cheer'st the fancy by the steady bloom,
With thoughts of summer and the fertile plain; Calling a thousand visions into play, Of beauty redolent, and bright as May.
The Acnathus is a native of Italy, and was introduced into England Dearly three hundred years ago. It blossorns in July, and continues to put forth its blue flowers until the Autumn.
If any thing obstrucţs its ready growth' it will strive to overcome and vegetate with increased vigor. An elegant English work, The Sentimenta of Flowers,' gives the following beautiful anecdote.
The architect, Callimach, passing near the tomb of a young maiden who had died a few days before the time appointed for her nuptials, moved by tenderness and pity, approached to scatter some flowers on her tomb. Another tribute to ber memory had preceded his. Her nurse had collected the flowers which should have decked her on her wedding day; and, putting them with the marriage veil, in a little basket, bad placed it near the grave upon a plant of acanthus, and then covered it with a tile. In the succeeding spring, the leaves of the acanthus grew round the basket : but, being stayed in their growth by the projecting tile, they recoiled and surmounted its extremities. Callimach, surprised by this rural decoration, which seemed the work of the Graces in tears, conceived the capital of the Corinthian column ; a magnificent ornament, still used aed admired by the whole civilized world.
She died as fair ones
Which Corinth claims.
THE MOSS ROSE.
Milton concurs with the sentiment, pleasure without alloy,' when be terms the elegant MOSS-ROSE without thorn the rose.'
An anonymous writer thus sweetly sings in preference :
0, I love the sweet-blooming, the pretty moss-rose, 'T is the type of true pleasure, and perfected joy ; 0, I envy each insect that dares to repose 'Midst its leaves, or among its soft beauties to toy.
I love the sweet lily, so pure and so pale,
0, I love the gay heart's-ease, and violet blue, The sun-flower and blue-bell, each flowret that
blows; The fir tree, the pine tree, acacia, and yew, Yet e'en these must yield to my pretty moss-rose.
Yes, I love my moss-rose, for it ne'er had a thorn, 'T is the type of life's pleasures, unmixed with its
woes! 'T is more gay, and more bright, than the opening
mornYes, all things must yield to my pretty moss-rose.