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With the Heiress, “ Mary-GOLD,"
For men who wish to marry ;
“ BACHELOR'S BUTTONS” now unfold,
For those who ever tarry.
“LOVE LIES BLEEDING” for the flirt
Its lonely bloom discloses;
Maidens, pray your frowns avert,
Prudes shall wear“ PRIMROSES."

In this wreath, for city men The “ Stock” its blossom raises; “Pinks” for would-be dandies, then The simple lack-a “ Daisies;" Deep “Blue Bells” for belles who read, “ JONQUILS” for the scribblers; “ LAUREL” crowns the victor's meed, And VIOL-ETS” the fiddler's.

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“ PASSION-FLOWERS” for lovers' vows,
When they dare confess them;
“ Roses" sweet, for Beauty's brows,
My pray’r is, Heaven bless them.
Lady, may thy pathway be,
Through life, with flowers blended,
“ FORGET ME NOT,” I ask of thee-
With this, my “ Wreath” is ended.

S. J.

ON THE LILY.

Bold Oxlip, and
The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds,
The Flower-de-luce being one. Of these I lack
To make you garlands of, and my sweet friend
To strew him o'er and o'er.

WINTER'S TALE.

SHIPWRECKED upon a kingdom where no pity,
No friends, no hope, no kindred, weep for me ;
Almost, no grave allowed me: like the lily,
That once was mistress of the field and flourished,
I'll hang my head and perish.

KING HENRY VIII.

Observe the rising lily's snowy grace,
Observe the various vegetable race ;
They neither toil nor spin, but careless grow,
Yet see how warm they blush ! how bright they glow.
What regal vestments can with them compare ;
What king so shining, or what queen so fair!

THE BLUE HARE-BELL*.

Have ye ever heard in the twilight dim,

A low, soft strain,
That

ye

fancied a distant vesper hymn,

Borne o'er the plain
By the zephyrs that rise on perfumed wing,
When the sun's last glances are glimmering ?

Have ye heard that music, with cadence sweet,

And merry peal,
Ring out, like the echoes of fairy feet,

O'er flowers that steal ?
And did ye deem that each trembling tone
Was the distant vesper-chime alone ?

The source of that whispering strain I'll tell ;

For I've listened oft
To the music faint of the Blue Hare-bell,

In the gloaming soft;
'Tis the gay fairy-folk the peal who ring,

At even-time for their banqueting.

These exquisitely beautiful lines have been selected from a volume, recently published by Mr. Tilt, entitled Poems, with Illustrations, by Louisa Anne Twamley.” A young lady, who, at the age of twenty, is a Poet, a Puinter, and her own Engraver.

And gaily the trembling bells peal out,

With gentle tongue,
While elves and fairies career about,

Mid dance and song.
Oh, roses and lilies are fair to see ;
But the wild Blue-bell is the flower for me.

LOUISA ANNE TWAMLEY.

ON A TIME-PIECE.

WITH A FIGURE OF TIME, PLACED NEAR A VASE OF

FLOWERS.

1

O PAUSE, Old Time, ere o'er my flowers,

Thy fatal sithe is coldly laid ;
And leave, O leave, some lingering hours,

Ere Nature's final debt is paid.

Some lingering hours, in which may rise

The memory of the buried past; And I may pour some parting sighs,

O’er hopes, thoughts, joys, for ever past.

They rise no more--those flowers are shed,

Whose early fragrance blest morn; They haunt the chambers of the dead,

Like flowers around the funeral urn.

Yet shall arise upon my way,

Affection's buds and blossoms fair ; The same that in my early day

With heavenly fragrance filled the air.

They live—they breathe ; and on my heart

I wear, still wear those cherished flowers ; And death alone those ties can part,

First woven in my home's sweet bowers.

O pause, old Time! for though to thee

I have not brought the tribute due; And hours, days, years, have fled from me,

Still to my mortal trust untrue ;

Yet, in thy course thou hast not seen,

Ungenerous wish, or fault unmourned, And all that ought not to have been

Upon a sorrowing heart returned.

And ere I bow beneath thy sway,

Full many a virtue shall be mine; For I will consecrate each day,

To bend at duty's hallowed shrine.

Then pause, old Time, ere o'er my flowers,

Thy fatal sithe is coldly laid ; And leave, O leave, some lingering hours,

Ere Nature's final debt is paid.

FROM THE SACRED OFFERING,

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