THE ALPINE FLOWERS.

MRS. SIGOURNEY.

Meek dwellers mid yon terror-stricken cliffs! With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips, Whence are ye? Did some white-winged messen

ger,

On Mercy's missions, trust your timid germ

To the cold cradle of eternal snows,

Or, breathing on the callous icicles,
Bid them with tear-drops muse ye?

Tree nor shrub

Dare that drear atmosphere; no poplar pine
Uprears a veteran front; yet there ye stand,
Leaning your cheeks against the thick-ribbed ice,
And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him
Who bids you bloom unblanched, amid the waste
Of desolation. Man, who panting, toils
O'er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the verge
Of yawning gulfs, o'er which the headlong plunge
Into eternity, looks shuddering up,

And marks ye in your placid loveliness-
Fearless, yet frail - and, clasping his chill hands,
Blesses your pencilled beauty. Mid the pomp
Of mountain summits rushing to the sky,
And chaining the wrapt soul in breathless awe,
He bows to bind you drooping to his breast,
Inhales your spirit from the frost-winged gale,
And freer dreams of heaven.

7

APRIL.

MISS LANDON.

Of all the months that fill the year,
Give April's month to me;

For earth and sky are then so filled
With sweet variety!

The apple-blossoms' shower of pear,
The pear-tree's rosier hue,

As beautiful as woman's blush,
As evanescent too.

The purple light, that like a sigh
Comes from the violet bed,
As there the perfumes of the East
Had all their odors shed.

The wild-brier rose, a fragrant cup
To hold the morning tear;
The bird's-eye like a sapphire star,
The primrose pale, like fear.

The balls that hang like drifted snow Upon the guilderose;

The woodbine's fairy trumpets, where

The elf his war-note blows.

On every bough there is a bud,

In every bud a flower;

But scarcely bud or flower will last
Beyond the present hour..

Now comes a shower-cloud o'er the sky, Then all again sunshine;

Then clouds again, but brightened with The rainbow's colored line.

Ay, this, this is the month for me!
I could not love a scene

Where the blue sky was always blue,
The green earth always green.

It is like love; O, love should be

An ever-changing thing,

The love that I could worship must

Be ever on the wing.

Sweet April! thou the emblem art
Of what my love must be;
One varying like the varying bloom
Is just the love for me.

THE CYPRESS TREE.

This tree speaks to us of death, and is universally the emblem of sor row and mourning. The Romans used it at their funerals. The Latins, on the death of their friends, placed a branch of the cypress tree in front of the house.

The Turks still adhere to the custom of planting the cypress over the graves of the departed. This custom is religiously observed by them; and as they gaze upon this tree, and mourn for the loved and lost, its upward pointing branches tell them that they remain not in the grave, but have ascended on high.

Cyparissus, the son of Telephus, a favored friend of the god Apollo, died of grief because he had killed Apollo's favorite stag, and was transformed by the god into a cypress tree.

Harris tells us that the gates of St. Peter's church at Rome, which bad lasted from the time of Constantine, to that of Pope Eugene, the Fourth, eleven hundred years, were of cypress wood, and had in all that time suffered no decay.

WIFFIN.

O'er ruined shrines and silent tombs,
The weeping cypress spreads its glooms,
In immortality of woe;

Whilst other shrubs in gladness blow,
And fling upon the passing wind
Their liberal treasures unconfined;
And well its dark and drooping leaf,
May image forth the gloom and grief,
Which, when we parted, gave reply
From heaving heart and dewy eye;
Then, lady, wear this wreath for me,
Plucked from the faithful cypress tree.

TO A WITHERED ROSE.

MRS. WHITMAN.

Pale flower-pale, fragile, faded fic wer-
What tender recollections swell,

What thoughts of deep and thrilling power
Are kindled in thy mystic spell?

A charm is in thy faint perfume,

To call up visions of the past,

Which, through my mind's o'ershadowing gloom, 'Rush like the rare stars, dim and fast.'

And loveliest shines that evening hour,

More dear by time and sorrow made,

When thou wert culled, ('love's token flower!') And on my throbbing bosom laid.

On eve's pale brow, one star burned bright,
Like heavenward hope, whose soothing dream
Is veiled from pleasure's dazzled sight,

To shine on sorrow's diadem.

Bright as the tears thy beauty wept,
The dewdrops on thy petals lay,
Till evening's silver winds had swept
Thy cheek, and kissed them all away.