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, Tree nor shrub Dare that drear atmosphere; no poplar pine And marks ye in your placid loveliness- 7 APRIL. MISS LANDON. Of all the months that fill the year, For earth and sky are then so filled The apple-blossoms' shower of pear, As beautiful as woman's blush, The purple light, that like a sigh The wild-brier rose, a fragrant cup 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 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! Where the blue sky was always blue, 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 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, Whilst other shrubs in gladness blow, TO A WITHERED ROSE. MRS. WHITMAN. Pale flower-pale, fragile, faded fic wer- What thoughts of deep and thrilling power 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, To shine on sorrow's diadem. Bright as the tears thy beauty wept, |