In the season of the Tulip-cup,

When blossoms clothe the trees, How sweet to throw the lattice up, And scent thee on the breeze: The butterfly is then abroad,

The bee is on the wing,

And on the hawthorn by the road
The linnets sit and sing.

Sweet Wall-flower, sweet Wall-flower!

Thou conjurest up to me
Full many a soft and sunny hour
Of boyhood's thoughtless glee,
When joy from out the daisies grew,
In woodland pastures green,

And summer skies were far more blue
Than since they e'er have been.

Now Autumn's pensive voice is heard
Amid the yellow bowers,

The robin is the regal bird,

And thou the Queen of Flowers!

He sings on the laburnum trees,
Amid the twilight dim,

And Araby ne'er gave the breeze
Such scenes as thou to him.

Rich is the Pink, the Lily gay,

The Rose is Summer's guest;

Bland are the charms when these decay,

Of flowers first, last, and best!

There may be gaudier on the bower,
And statelier on the tree,

But Wall-flower, loved Wall-flower,
Thou art the flower for me.

The same.- TOWNSEND.

THE Rose and Lily blossom fair,
But all unmeet for Sorrow's child;
They deck the bower and gay parterre,
As if for Mirth alone they smiled.

The Cowslip nods upon the lea;

And, where wild wreaths the green lanes dress, The Woodbine blooms, but not for me,

For these are haunts of Happiness.

I will not seek the mossy bed,

Where Violets court soft vernal showers,

For Quiet there reclines her head,

And Innocence is gathering flowers.

The WALL-FLOWER only shall be mine;
Its simple faith is dear to me:
To roofless tower, and prostrate shrine,
It clings with patient constancy.

And, prodigal of love, blooms on,
Though all unseen its beauties die,
And, though for desert gales alone,

Breathes fragrance rich as Araby.

Oh, there appears a generous scorn
Of all requital in its choice!

The thousand flowers that earth adorn,
In earth's exuberant stores rejoice.

It only asks the freshening dew, Imparting all where nought is givenRaised above earth, as if it drew

Its only nutriment from heaven.

THE HYACINTH, OR HAREBELL.

THE common, or Wood Hyacinth, is a native of Per. sia, and of many parts of Europe. In the spring it abounds in our woods, hedges, &c.; and on this account the old botanists have given it the name of the English Hyacinth. The botanic designation of Hyacintus non-scriptus is applied to it because it has not the Ai on the petals, and therefore is not the poetical Hyacinth.

THE Harebell, for her stainless, azure hue,
Claims to be worn by none but those are true.

Blue-bell! how gaily art thou drest,

How neat and trim art thou, sweet flower;

How silky is thy azure vest,

How fresh to flaunt at morning's hour!
Could'st thou but think, I well might say
Thou art as proud in rich array

As lady, blithesome, young, and vain,
Prank'd up with folly and disdain,
Vaunting her power.

Sweet flower!

MRS. ROBINSON.

SWEET Flower! though many a ruthless storm
Sweep fiercely o'er thy slender form,

And many a sturdier plant may bow
In death beneath the tempest's blow,
Submissive thou, in pensive guise,
Uninjured by each gale, shalt rise,
And deck'd with innocence remain
The fairest tenant of the plain :
So, conscious of its lowly state,
Trembles the heart assail'd by fate,
Yet, when the fleeting blast is o'er,
Settles as transient as before;

While the proud breast no peace shall find,
No refuge for a troubled mind.

THE HAREBELL AND THE FOX-GLOVE.

ANON.

In a valley obscure, on a bank of green shade,
A sweet little Harebell her dwelling had made;
Her roof was a Woodbine, that tastefully spread
Its close-woven tendrils, o'erarching her head:
Her bed was of moss, that each morning made new;
She dined on a sunbeam and supp'd on the dew:
Her neighbour, the nightingale, sung her to rest;
And care had ne'er planted a thorn in her breast.