The Primrose.....When Time's dark Winter shall be o'er,
His storms and tempests laid;

Like me you'll rise, a flagrant flower,
But not, like me, to fade.

The Garden.......The bower of innocence and bliss

Sin caus'd to disappear;

Repent, and walk in faith and love-
You'll find an Eden here.

BP. HORNE.

The Heliotrope or sun-flower, Helianthus annuus, a native of Mexico, is said to trace with its radiant corolla the march of the sun, an idea maintained by many writers. Moore, in his Irish Melodies, says,

As the Sun-flower turns to her god when he sets,
The same look which she turned when he rose.

Thomson, in his Seasons, and Langhorne in his Fables of Flora, entertain the same popular notion: and Sir J. E. Smith states, "Its stem is compressed in some degree, to facilitate the movement of the flower which after following the sun all day, returns after sun-set to the East, by its natural elasticity, to meet his beams in the morning,"-Introd. to Botany, p. 209. But the slightest observation of this plant will show, that it does not possess this wonderful property. Gerard detected the error even so long ago as 1597.-Herbal, p. 614. See Drummond's Steps to Botany, chap. 6.

TO THE PASSION-FLOWER.

IF Superstition's baneful art

First gave thy mystic name,
Reason, I trust, would steel my heart
Against its groundless claim.
But if, in Fancy's pensive hour,
By grateful feelings stirr'd,
Her fond imaginative power

That name at first conferr'd,

Though lightly Truth her flights may prize,

By wild vagary driven,

For once their blameless exercise

May surely be forgiven.

We roam the seas-give new-found isles

Some king or conqueror's name :

We rear on earth triumphal piles,
As meeds of earthly fame :

We

e soar to heaven-and to outlive
Our life's contracted span,

Unto the glorious stars we give
The names of mortal man.

Then may not one poor flow'ret's bloom
The holier memory share,
Of HIM who, to avert our doom,
Vouchsaf'd our sins to bear?

God dwelleth not in temples rear'd
By work of human hands;
Yet shrines august, by men rever'd,
Are found in Christian lands.

And may not e'en a simple flower
Proclaim His glorious praise,
Whose Fiat only had the power
Its form from earth to raise !

Then freely let thy blossom ope

Its beauties-to recall

A scene, which bids the humble hope

In HIM who died for all!

B. BARTON.

The Passion-flower, Passiflora cærulea, a native of the Brazils, was introduced into this country in 1699, and was called Flos Passionis, till altered by Linnæus. Its name was derived from the fancied resemblance of the different parts of the flower and plant to the instruments of Christ's suffering. The five stamens were compared to his five wounds;-the three styles to the nails, by which he was fixed to the cross;-the column, which elevates the germen, to the cross itself;-the rays of the nectary to the crown of thorns,-and the petals to the ten Apostles, Judas and Peter being rejected.

?

OH! how could Fancy crown with thee,
In ancient times, the God of wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be
Companion of the vine?

Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound
Of revelry hath long been o'er,

Where songs' full notes once peal'd around, But now are heard no more.

The Roman, on his battle-plains,

Where kings before his eagles bent,
Entwin'd thee, with exulting strains,
Around the victor's tent;

Yet there, though fresh in glossy green,
Triumphally the bough might wave,
Better thou lov'st the silent scene,
Around the victor's grave.

Where sleep the sons of ages flown,

The bards and heroes of the past,

Where, through the halls of glory gone,
Murmurs the wintry blast:

Where years are hastening to efface
Each record of the grand and fair,-
Thou, in thy solitary grace,

Wreath of the tomb! art there.

Thou o'er the shrines of fallen gods,
On classic plains dost mantling spread,
And veil the desolate abodes

And cities of the dead;
Deserted palaces of Kings,-

Arches of triumph, long o'erthrown,-
And all once-glorious earthly things,
At length are thine alone.

Oh! many a temple, once sublime,
Beneath the blue Italian sky,
Hath nought of beauty left by time,

Save thy wild tapestry ;

And, rear'd 'midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine
To wave where banners wav'd of yore;
O'er mouldering towers, by lonely Rhine,
Cresting the rocky shore.

High from the fields of air look down
Those eyries of a vanish'd race,
Homes of the mighty, whose renown,
Hath pass'd, and left no trace;
But thou art there!-thy foliage bright,

Unchang'd, the mountain-storm can brave,—
Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height,
And deck the humblest grave.

The breathing forms of Parian stone,

That rise round grandeur's marble halls,—

The vivid hues, by painting thrown,

Rich o'er the glowing walls ;

Th' Acanthus, on Corinthian fanes,
In sculptur'd beauty waving fair ;-
These perish all—and what remains ?
Thou-thou alone, art there!

'Tis still the same-where'er we tread,
The wrecks of human power we see,
The marvels of all ages fled,

Left to decay and thee!

And still let man his fabrics rear,

August in beauty, grace, and strength,

Days pass-Thou, Ivy, never sere,

And all is thine at length !

MRS. HEMANS.

THE GRASSHOPPER.

HAPPY creature! what below

Can more happy live than thou?
Seated on thy leafy throne,
(Summer weaves thy verdant crown,)
Sipping o'er the pearly lawn
The fragrant nectar of the dawn;
Little tales thou lov'st to sing,
Tales of mirth-an insect king.
Thine the treasures of the field,
All thy own the seasons yield;
Nature paints for thee the year,
Songster to the shepherds dear,
Innocent, of placid fame,

What of man can boast the same?

Thine the lavish'd voice of praise,

Harbinger of fruitful days;
Darling of the tuneful Nine,

Phoebus is thy sire divine;