Phoebus to thy notes has given
Music from the spheres of Heaven :
Happy most, as first of earth,

All thy hours are peace and mirth;
Cares nor pains to thee belong,
Thou alone art ever young;
Thine the pure immortal vein,
Blood nor flesh thy life sustain ;
Rich in spirits, health thy feast,
Thou'rt a demi-god at least.

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,
Which oft perfumes the eastern gale,
That in its changes can disclose

The varied scenes of Life's short tale:

For when the dawn springs forth in light,
Like Childhood's first and earliest days,
The Rose's blossom then is white,

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,
The Rose in purple garb is seen,

Life's evening, when young Hope is flown.

How often are our youthful hours,

Our Spring, our noon of life o'ercast,
When darkness o'er our evening lowers

In gloom of night, or Winter's blast!
New Monthly Magazine.

"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,
I lov'd to see the oak majestic tower,-
I lov'd to see the apple's painted flower,
Bedropp'd with pencill'd tints of rosy hue;
Now, more I love thee, Melancholy Yew!
Whose still green leaves in solemn silence wave,
Above the peasant's rude unhonour'd grave,
Which oft thou moistenest with the morning dew.
To thee the sad, to thee the weary fly:

They rest in peace beneath thy sacred gloom,
Thou sole companion of the lowly tomb!

No leaves but thine in pity o'er them sigh.

Lo! now, to fancy's gaze, thou seem'st to spread
Thy shadowy boughs to shroud me with the dead.
DR. LEYDEN.

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,
Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay,
That Spirit-to whose charge is given
To bathe young buds in dews from heaven ;
Awakening from his light repose,

The angel whisper'd to the Rose,-
"O fondest object of my care,

Still fairest found where all are fair,
For the sweet shade thou giv'st to me,
Ask what thou wilt, 'tis granted thee."
Then, said the Rose, with deepen'd glow,-
"On me another grace bestow."-

The Spirit paused, in silent thought,
What grace was there that flower had not?
'Twas but a moment-o'er the Rose

A veil of moss the angel throws,
And, robed in nature's simplest weed,
Could there a flower that Rose exceed?

Blackwood's Magazine.

THE POPPY.

HE widely errs who thinks I yield
Precedence in the well-cloth'd field,
Though mix'd with wheat I grow ;
Indulgent Ceres knew my worth,
And, to adorn the teeming earth,
She bade the Poppy grow.

Nor vainly gay the sight to please,
But bless'd with power mankind to ease,
The goddess saw me rise:
"Thrive with the life-supporting grain,"
She cried, "the solace of the swain,
The cordial of his eyes."

"Seize, happy mortal, seize the good;
My hand supplies thy sleep and food,
And makes thee truly bless'd:
With plenteous meals enjoy the day,
In slumbers pass the night away,

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 I will bind thee round my brow;

And, as I twine the mournful wreath,
I'll weave a melancholy song;

And sweet the strain shall be, and long,
The melody of death.

Come funeral flower; who lov'st to dwell
With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom
A sweet decaying smell.

Come, press my lips, and lie with me
Beneath the lonely alder tree,

And we shall sleep a pleasant sleep,
And not a care shall dare intrude,
To break the marble solitude

So peaceful and so deep.

And hark! the wind-god, as he flies,
Moans hollow in the forest trees,
And sailing on the gusty breeze,
Mysterious music dies.

Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine,
It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf altar of the dead;

My grave shall be in yon lone spot,
Where as I lie, by all forgot,

A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.

H. KIRKE WHITE.