The Calendar of Flora.

Fair, rising from her icy couch,
Wan herald of the floral year

The Snow-drop marks the Spring's approach
E'er yet the Primrose groups appear,
Or peers the Arum from its spotted veil,

Or odorous Violets scent the cold capricious gale.

Then thickly strewn in woodland bowers

Anemones their stars unfold;

There spring the Sorrels' veinèd flowers;

And rich in vegetable gold.

From Calyx pale the freckled Cowslip born, Receives in amber cups the fragrant dews of morn.

Lo! the green Thorn her silver buds

Expand to May's enlivening beam ; Cowslip the verdant sward bestuds;

And where the slowly, trickling stream 'Mid grass and spiry rushes stealing glides, Her lovely-fringèd flowers fair Buck-bean hides.

In the lone copse or shadowy dale

Wild clustered knots of Harebells grow, And droops the Lily of the Vale

O'er Periwinkle leaves below;

The Orchis race with varied beauty charm,

And mock the exploring bee or fly's aerial form.

Wound in the hedgerow's oaken boughs,

The Woodbine's tassels float in air;
And blushing, the uncultured Rose,

Hangs high her beauteous blossoms there;
Her fillets there in purple Nightshade weaves,
And Briony winds her broad and scalloped leaves.

To later summer's fragrant breath

Clematis' feathery garlands dance;

The hollow Foxglove nods beneath :

While the tall Mullein's yellow lance,

Dear to the mealy moth of evening, towers;

And the weak Bedstraw wears its myriad fairy flowers.

Sheltering the coot's or wild duck's nest,

And where the timid halcyon hides, The Willow herb, in crimson drest,

Waves with red feathers o'er the tides;

And there the Water Lily loves to lave,

Or spread her golden orbs upon the dimpling wave.

And thou by pain and sorrow blest,
Kind Poppy that an opiate dew
Conceal'st beneath thy scarlet vest,

Contrasting with the Corn-flower blue,
Autumnal months behold thy gauzy leaves

Bend in the rustling gale amid the tawny sheaves.

From the first bud whose venturous head
The Winter's lingering tempest braves,

To those which 'mid the foliage dead
Sink latest to their annual graves,

All are for food, for health, or pleasure given,

All speak in various ways the bounteous hand of Heaven.

From "Gems of National Poetry."

Were I, O God, in churchless lands remaining,
Far from all voice of preachers and divines,
My soul would find in flowers of Thine ordaining,
Priest, sermons, shrines.

The Rose.

How much of memory dwells amidst thy bloom!
Rose! ever wearing beauty for thy dower!
The bridal-day, the festival, the tomb-

Thou hast thy part in each, thou stateliest flower.

Rose! for the banquet gathered, and the bier, Rose! coloured now by human bliss and pain; Surely, where death is not-nor pain, nor fear, Yet I may meet thee, joy's own flower, again. Mrs. Hemans.

"The Rose distilled a healing balm

The beating pulse of pain to calm."

The Rose had been washed, just washed by a shower,
Which Mary to Anna conveyed;

The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower,
And weighed down its beautiful head.

The cup was all full, and the leaves were all wet,
And it seemed, to a fanciful view,

To weep for the buds it had left with regret
On the flourishing bush which grew.

I hastily seized it, unfit as it was

For nosegay, so dripping and drowned;
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
I snapped it; it fell to the ground.

And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind,

Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to sorrow resigned.

This elegant Rose, had I shaken it less,

Might have bloomed with its owner awhile; And the tear which is wiped with a little address, May be followed perhaps by a smile.

Cowper.