To mark the Swift in rapid giddy ring
Dash round the steeple, unsubdued of wing:
Amusive birds! say where your hid retreat
When the frost rages and the tempests beat;
Whence your return, by such nice instinct led,
When Spring, soft season, lifts her bloomy head?
Such baffled searches mock man's prying pride,
The God of Nature is your secret guide!
While deepening shades obscure the face of day,
To yonder bench leaf-sheltered let us stray,
Till blended objects fail the swimming sight,
And all the fading landscape sinks in night;
To hear the drowsy Dor come brushing by
With buzzing wing, or the shrill Cricket cry;
To see the feeding Bat glance through the wood;
To catch the distant falling of the flood;

While o'er the cliff th' awakened Churn-owl* hung
Through the still gloom protracts his chattering song;
While high in air, and poised upon his wings
Unseen, the soft enamour'd Wood-lark+ sings:
These, Nature's works, the curious mind employ,
Inspire a soothing, melancholy joy:

As fancy warms, a pleasing kind of pain
Steals o'er the cheek, and thrills the creeping vein!
Each rural sight, each sound, each smell, combine;
The tinkling sheep-bell, or the breath of kine;
The new-mown hay that scents the swelling breeze,
Or cottage-chimney smoking through the trees.
The chilling night-dews fall :-away, retire ;—
For see, the Glow-v
-worm lights her amorous fire!

*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,
Th' impatient damsel hung her lamp on high :
True to the signal, by love's meteor led,

Leander hastened to his Hero's bed.

GILBERT WHITE, 1769.

THE FORGET-ME-NOT.

OH! Lady take this drooping flower;
"Twill call to mind our parting hour,
This simple plant, whate'er my lot,
In silence says "Forget-me-not."

When on the ocean far away,
Or tossed about in Biscay's Bay ;
When stormy winds howl round thy cot,
"Twill tell thy heart-" Forget-me-not."

Ev'n when 'tis wither'd think of me,
Ah! many thoughts I'll waft to thee;
Though I no more may see the spot,
'Twill whisper thee-" Forget-me-not."
And now Farewell! where'er I flee,
All hopes and joys shall rest on thee;
Ne'er from thy heart my memory blot
I ask but this "Forget-me-not."

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,
In thy fair structure are display'd
By HIM who rear'd thee to this hour
Within the forest's lonely shade!

Thy tender stalk, and fibres fine,

Here find a shelter from the storm;
Perhaps no human eyes but mine
E'er gazed upon thy lovely form.

The dewdrop glistens on thy leaf,
As if thou seem'dst to shed a tear-
As if thou knew'st my tale of grief—
Felt all my sufferings severe !

But ah! thou know'st not my distress
In danger here from beasts of prey,
And robbed of all I did possess,

By men more fierce by far than they.

Nor canst thou ease my burdened sigh,
Nor cool the fever at my heart,
Though to the zephyrs passing by

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,
Protected my defenceless head,
From ills I never could perceive,

Nor could my feeble hand have stayed.

Then shall I still pursue my way
O'er this wild desert's sun-burnt soil,
To where the ocean's swelling spray

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,
Spoiling with graceless line the mountain edge,
Clothing with awkward sameness rifted ledge,
Or uplands swelling brokenly and free;

Yet shalt thou win some few good words of me.
Thy boughs it is that teach the wind to mourn,
Haunting deep inland spots, and groves forlorn
With the true murmurs of the plaintive sea.
When tuft and shoot on vernal woodlands shine,
Who hath a green unwinter-like as thine?
And when thou leanest o'er some beetling brow,
With pale thin twigs the eye can wander through,
There is no other tree on earth but thou,

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,
And here they stretch to the frolic chase,
And there they roll on the easy gale.

There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower,
There's a titter of winds in that beechen-tree,

There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower,
And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.
And look at the broad-fac'd sun how he smiles
On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray,

On the leaping waters and gay young isles,
Ay, look, and he 'll smile thy gloom away.

W. C. BRYANT.

ALL NATURE BEAUTIFUL.

NATURE in every form is lovely still.
I can admire to ecstacy, although
I be not bower'd in a rustling grove,

Tracing through flowery tufts some twinkling rill,
Or perch'd upon a green and sunny hill,

Gazing upon the sylvanry below,

And harkening to the warbling beaks above.