TO A CROCUS,*

WELCOME, mild harbinger of Spring!
To this small nook of earth;
Feeling and fancy fondly cling

Round thoughts which owe their birth
To thee, and to the humble spot
Where chance has fix'd thy lowly lot.

To thee for thy rich, golden bloom,
Like Heaven's fair bow on high,
Portends, amid surrounding gloom,
That brighter days draw nigh,
When blossoms of more varied dyes
Shall ope their tints to warmer skies.

Yet not the lily, nor the rose,
Though fairer far they be,

Can more delightful thoughts disclose,
Than I derive from thee:

The

eye their beauty may prefer; The heart is thy interpreter !

Methinks in thy fair bloom is seen,

By those whose fancies roam,
An emblem of that leaf of green
The faithful dove brought home,
When o'er the world of waters dark
Were driven the inmates of the ark.

That leaf betoken'd freedom nigh
To mournful captives there;
Thy flower foretells a sunnier sky,
And chides the dark despair

The first flower in the author's garden, growing up and blossoming beneath a wall-flower.

By Winter's chilling influence flung
O'er spirits sunk, and nerves unstrung.

And sweetly has kind Nature's hand
Assign'd thy dwelling-place
Beneath a flower whose blooms expand,
With fond congenial grace,
On many a desolated pile,

Brightening decay with beauty's smile.

Thine is the flower of Hope,-whose hue
Is bright with coming joy;

The Wall-flower 's that of Faith, too true
For ruin to destroy;—

And where, O, where, should Hope up-spring
But under Faith's protecting wing?

B. BARTON.

TO THE WHITE JASMINE.

JASMINE! thy fair and star-like flowers with honours should be crown'd:

In day's rude din and sunny hour, they shed faint sweetness round;

But still, at eve, their rich perfume with fragrance fills the air, As if to cheer the hours of gloom, and soothe the brow of

care.

Oh! thus, in Fortune's sunny ray, the light of Love seems pale,

Till dark clouds o'er the glare of day cast their shadowy veil;

Then, like thy odours, it bursts forth, a guide to Joy's glad goal,

Bless'd beacon of surpassing worth, and pole-star of the soul! B. BARTON.

THE CUCKOO.

HARK!-The Cuckoo's sprightly note
That tells the coming of the vernal prime,
And cheers the heart of youth and aged man.
Say, sweet stranger, whence hast thou ta'en thy flight,
From Asia's spicy groves, or Afric's clime,
And who directs thy wandering journey far?
Philosophy, says Instinct,-Religion, GOD.
Though simple is thy note, it speaks to man's
Reflecting soul, since thou didst wing thy course
From Albion's cliffs, another year is gone,
Fraught with events to cause vast realms to quake.
A year! how short the space, unnotic'd by
The gay and mindless throng, yet awful to
The race of human kind.

Another year may pass, unheeded as

The one so lately number'd in the book

Of Time, and thou wilt take thy flight to realms
Unknown; but when thou cheer'st the future Spring,
Will those who now admire thy song, walk forth
To hear thy lay?—This awful question brings
A thousand thoughts of solemn import to
Th' attentive mind. Another year! and then,
Oh God! the souls who greet this smiling morn
May stand for judgement at thy dreadful throne;
This serious call should check man's sinful course,
And raise his views to Heaven.

REV. W. MUNSEY.

"The note of the Cuckoo, though uniform, always gives pleasure, because it reminds us that Summer is coming; but this pleasure is mixed with melancholy, because we reflect, that it will soon be going again. This is the consideration which embitters every sublunary enjoyment. Let the delight of my heart, then, be in Thee, O Lord and Creator of all things, with whom alone is no variableness, neither shadow of changing."-Bp. Horne.

ON PLANTING A TULIP-ROOT.

HERE lies a bulb, the child of earth,
Buried alive beneath the clod,
Ere long to spring, by second birth,
A new and nobler work of GOD.

'Tis said that microscopic power
Might through its swaddling-folds descry
The infant-image of the flower,

Too exquisite to meet the eye.

This, vernal suns and rains will swell,
Till from its dark abode it peep,
Like Venus rising from her shell,
Amidst the spring-tide of the deep.

Two shapely leaves will first unfold,
Then, on a smooth elastic stem,
The verdant bud shall turn to gold,
And open in a diadem.

Not one of Flora's brilliant race

A form more perfect can display;

Art could not feign more simple grace,

Nor Nature take a line away.

Yet, rich as morn of many a hue,

When flushing clouds through darkness strike,

The Tulip's petals shine in dew,

All beautiful, but none alike.

Kings, on their bridal might unrobe
To lay their glories at its foot;

And queens their sceptre, crown, and globe,
Exchange for blossom, stalk, and root.

Here could I stand and moralize;
Lady, I leave that part to thee;
Be thy next birth in Paradise,
Thy life to come, Eternity.

MONTGOMERY.

The Bulbs of Plants almost in every respect resemble buds, except in their being produced under ground, and include the leaves and flowers in miniature, which are to be expanded in the succeeding Spring. By carefully cutting in the early Spring through the concentric coats of a tulip root, longitudinally from the top to the base, and taking them off successively, the whole flower of the next Summer tulip, with its petals, pistil, and stamens may be seen by the naked eye. The flowers exist in other bulbs, in the same manner, as in the Hyacinth, but being less, are not so easily distinguished.

THE GUM-CISTUS.

FRAIL plant! whose early buds display
Their beauties to the opening day,
And fade with its declining ray,
To bloom no more;

When thy poor scatter'd leaves I view,
So lately bright with morning dew,
'Neath the green bush on which they grew,
So lowly laid;

An emblem of myself I see,

When cheerful morning dawn'd for me;
But I have droop'd, and died like thee
In sorrow's night.

Yes! Hope once dwelt within my breast,
Calm were my days, serene and bless'd;
While her soft accents whisper'd rest
For future years.

But, when affliction's chilling night
Shaded the morn, so fair and bright,
From this sad heart she took her flight,
To those more bless'd.