To mark the Swift in rapid giddy ring While o'er the cliff th' awakened Churn-owl* hung As fancy warms, a pleasing kind of pain *The male Churn-owl or Nightjar, Caprimulgus Europaus, during the season of incubation, makes a very singular noise, not unlike a large spinningwheel, which on still evenings may be heard at a considerable distance; and hence it has obtained the name of the Wheel-bird. It is a great destroyer of cock-chafers, moths, and other insects, which it catches on the wing. In hot Summer nights Wood-larks soar to a prodigious height and hang singing in the air. Thus, ere night's veil had half-obscur'd the sky, Leander hastened to his Hero's bed. GILBERT WHITE, 1769. THE FORGET-ME-NOT. OH! Lady take this drooping flower; When on the ocean far away, Ev'n when 'tis wither'd think of me, C. F. EDGAR. The Forget-me-not, or Mouse-ear Scorpion-Grass, Myosotis palustris, a most beautiful plant frequent in watery places. Its racemes bend at the top like a scorpion's tail; hence is derived one of its trivial names. This flower has long been considered the emblem of friendship in almost every part of Europe. Aimez-moi, ne m'oubliez pas. The wild Speedwell, Veronica charmædys, "with its celestial eye of blue" has sometimes been taken for the real " Forget-me-not," with which it vies in beauty. Mills, in his History of the Crusades, gives a romantic account of the origin of the name of this lovely blue flower, vol. 1., page 315. THE MOSS IN THE DESERT. AH! lovely flower, what care, what power, Thy tender stalk, and fibres fine, Here find a shelter from the storm; The dewdrop glistens on thy leaf, But ah! thou know'st not my distress By men more fierce by far than they. Nor canst thou ease my burdened sigh, Thou dost thy balmy sweets impart. Yet HE that form'd thee, little plant, And bade thee flourish in this place, Who sees and feels my every want, Can still support me by His grace. Oft has His arm, all strong to save, Nor could my feeble hand have stayed. Then shall I still pursue my way Washes my longed for, native isle. ALEXANDER LEATHAM. These feeling lines were composed by a blind boy in the asylum at Edinburgh, and owed their origin to an incident which occurred to our enterprising countryman, Mungo Park, who, when in the wilds of Africa, in 1795, derived consolation under severe hardships from the sight of a little moss, Dicranum bryoides (See Hooker's Muscol. Brit. p. 51.) "Whichever way I turned," says the traveller, "I saw myself in the midst of a vast wilderness, in the depth of the rainy season, naked and alone; surrounded by savage animals, and by men still more savage. I was five hundred miles from any European settlement. All these circumstances crowded at once on my recollection, and I confess that my spirits began to fail me. I considered my fate as certain, and that I had no alternative but to lie down and perish. At this moment, painful as my reflections were, the extraordinary beauty of a small Moss, in fructification, caught my eye. I mention this, to show from what trifling circumstances the mind will sometimes derive consolation; for, though the whole plant was not larger than the top of one of my fingers, I could not contemplate the delicate conformation of its roots, leaves, and capsule, without admiration. Can that Being, thought I, who planted, watered, and brought to perfection, in this obscure part of the world, a thing which appears of so small importance, look with unconcern upon the situation and sufferings of creatures formed after his own image? Surely not! Reflections like these would not allow me to despair. I started up, and disregarding both hunger and fatigue, travelled forwards, assured that relief was at hand-and I was not disappointed." LARCH TREES. ALL men speak ill of thee, unlucky tree, Yet shalt thou win some few good words of me. Which brings the sky so near and makes it seem so blue. F. W. FABER. ON THE GLADNESS OF NATURE. Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, When our mother Nature laughs around; When ev'n the deep blue heavens look glad, And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground? There the notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, And the gossip of swallows through all the sky; The ground-squirrel gaily chirps by his den, And the wild bee hums merrily by. The clouds are at play in the azure space, And their shadows at play on the bright green vale, There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower, On the leaping waters and gay young isles, W. C. BRYANT. ALL NATURE BEAUTIFUL. NATURE in every form is lovely still. Tracing through flowery tufts some twinkling rill, Gazing upon the sylvanry below, And harkening to the warbling beaks above. |