The WREATH, a presentation Plate, to follow the half-title.
The EVENING PRIMROSE, Plate E, to front the title as a fron-
tispiece.

The twenty-four Flowers to face their botanical descriptions.

FLORA AND THALIA;

OR,

GEMS OF FLOWERS AND POETRY.

AN ODE TO SPRING.

Now the golden morn aloft

Waves her dew-bespangled wing,
With vermeil cheek, and whisper soft,

She wooes the tardy spring;
Till April starts, and calls around
The sleeping fragrance from the ground;
And lightly, o'er the living scene,
Scatters his freshest tend'rest green.

New-born flocks, in rustic dance,
Frisking ply their feeble feet;
Forgetful of their wintry trance,
The birds his presence greet.

B

But chief the skylark warbles high
His trembling thrilling ecstasy,
And lessening from the dazzled sight,
Melts into air and liquid light.

Rise my soul! on wings of fire,
Rise the rapt'rous choir among;
Hark! 'tis Nature strikes the lyre,
And leads the general song.
Warm let the lyric transport flow,
Warm as the ray that bids it glow,
And animates the vernal grove
With health, with harmony, and love.

Yesterday, the sullen year

Saw the snowy whirlwind fly;
Mute was the music of the air,

The herd stood drooping by;
Their raptures now that wildly flow,
No yesterday, nor morrow, know;
'Tis man alone that joy descries,
With forward and reverted eyes.

See the wretch, that long has tost
On the thorny bed of pain,
At length repair his vigour lost,
And breathe, and walk again.
The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening paradise.

GRAY.

APRIL.

Now infant April joins the Spring,
And views the wat'ry sky;
As youngling linnet tries its wing,
And fears at first to fly.
With timid step she ventures on,
And hardly dares to smile;
Till blossoms open one by one,
And sunny hours beguile.

In wanton gambols, like a child,
She tends her early toils;
And seeks the buds along the wild,
That blossom while she smiles:
Or, laughing on, with nought to chide,
She races with the hours;

Or sports by Nature's lovely side,
And fills her lap with flow'rs.

The shepherd, on his pasture-walks,
The first fair cowslip finds,
Whose tufted flowers, on slender stalks,
Keep nodding to the winds.

And though the thorns withhold the May,
Their shades the violets bring,

Which children stoop for in their play,
As tokens of the Spring.

Sweet month! thy pleasures bid thee be
The fairest child of Spring;

And every hour that comes with thee,
Comes some new joy to bring:
The trees still deeper in their bloom,
Grass greens the meadow lands;
And flowers with ev'ry morning come,
As dropt by fairy hands.

The field and garden's lovely hours
Begin and end with thee;

For what's so sweet as peeping flowers,
And bursting buds to see?
What time the dew's unsullied drops,
In burnish'd gold distil,
On crocus flowers' unclosing tops,
And drooping daffodil ?

To see thee come, all hearts rejoice,
And warm with feelings strong;
With thee all Nature finds a voice,
And hums a waking song.
The lover views thy welcome hours,
And thinks of summer come;
And takes the maid thy early flowers,
To tempt her steps from home.

Though, at her birth, the northern gale
Come with its withering sigh;
And hopeful blossoms, turning pale,
Upon her bosom die;