Phoebus to thy notes has given All thy hours are peace and mirth; ANACREON. The Grasshopper, Cicada, is well known to every schoolboy:-this sprightly insect appears to possess a very acute sense of hearing, and ceases its stridulous music, of which it is by no means sparing in the Summer months, as soon as it perceives the advance of any intruder; so that it is not easy to discover the spot where it rests, unless approached with the utmost caution. The Athenians, it is said, kept grasshoppers in cages for the sake of their song, and gave them the name of "Nightingales of the Nymphs." In Surinam, the Dutch call them lyre-players, because their note resembles the sound of a vibrating wire. As in the case of birds, the male only sings,-for which reason Xenarchus used satirically to ascribe their happiness to their having silent wives!-For another translation of the above pleasing Ode, see that by our poet, Cowley. THE CHANGING ROSE-HIBISCUS. THERE is a Rose, a fragrant Rose, The varied scenes of Life's short tale: For when the dawn springs forth in light, At And early innocence displays. noon, like man, the changing flower Shows all his heat, and blood, and strife, And flaming red in every bower, Pourtrays the ripening age of life. But like the darkening clouds at e'en, When sultry suns have scorch'd the morn, Life's evening, when young Hope is flown. How often are our youthful hours, Our Spring, our noon of life o'ercast, In gloom of night, or Winter's blast! "The Changing Rose-Hibiscus, Hibiscus variabilis, received its name, on account of the remarkable and periodical variations, which the colours of the flowers present. White in the morning, they become more or less red or carnation-colour towards the middle of the day, and terminate in a deep rose colour when the sun is set. This fact has been long known. The following observations may assist to discover the cause of it. Mr. Ramond, the director of the botanic garden at Havannah, remarked, that, on the 19th October, 1828, this flower remained white all day, and did not commence to redden till the next day, towards noon. On consulting the meteorological tables, he found that on that very day, the temperature did not rise above 67 degrees Fahrenheit while ordinarily it was at least 86 degrees, at the period of the inflorescence of this plant. It would appear then that the temperature holds a place of some importance in the coloration of certain plants."-Edin. Jo. of Nat. and Geog. Science, vol. 1. p. 148. TO THE YEW-TREE. WHEN Fortune smil'd, and Nature's charms were new, They rest in peace beneath thy sacred gloom, No leaves but thine in pity o'er them sigh. Lo! now, to fancy's gaze, thou seem'st to spread The Yew, Taxus communis, is celebrated both for its military and superstitious uses in England, These trees were anciently planted in our churchyards either to supply the parishioners with bows, or to protect the church from storms. In every nation it is considered the emblem of mourning. Its branches were carried in funeral processions by the friends of the deceased;the yew has thus partly acquired an almost sacred character. THE MOSS-ROSE. THE angel of the flowers one day, The angel whisper'd to the Rose,- Still fairest found where all are fair, The Spirit paused, in silent thought, A veil of moss the angel throws, Blackwood's Magazine. THE POPPY. HE widely errs who thinks I yield Nor vainly gay the sight to please, "Seize, happy mortal, seize the good; And leave to God the rest." Adventurer, No. 39. The Poppy is scattered over the fields of corn, that all the needs of man may easily be satisfied, and that bread and sleep may be found together.COWLEY. TO THE ROSEMARY. SWEET-SCENTED Flower! who art wont to bloom On January's front severe, And o'er the wintry desert drear To waft thy waste perfume! Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, And, as I twine the mournful wreath, And sweet the strain shall be, and long, Come funeral flower; who lov'st to dwell Come, press my lips, and lie with me And we shall sleep a pleasant sleep, So peaceful and so deep. And hark! the wind-god, as he flies, Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine, The cold turf altar of the dead; My grave shall be in yon lone spot, A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. H. KIRKE WHITE. |