THE CELANDINE.

THE name of this plant is derived from the Greek, and signifies a swallow. It is not so named, as some have sup posed, from its coming and going with the swallow; but, according to Gerard, from an opinion which prevailed among the country-people, that the old swallows used it to restore sight to their young when their eyes were out. For the same reason, it is also called Swallow-wort.

TO THE SMALL CELANDINE.

ANON.

PANSIES, Lilies, Kingcups, Daisies,
Let them live upon their praises;
Long as there's a sun that sets,
Primroses will have their glory;
Long as there are Violets,

They will have a place in story;
There's a flower that shall be mine,

'Tis the little Celandine.

Eyes of some men travel far

For the finding of a star;

Up and down the heavens they go,
Men that keep a mighty rout!
I'm as great as they, I trow,

Since the day I found thee out:

Little flower!-I'll make a stir,
Like a great Astronomer.

Modest, yet withal an elf,

Bold, and lavish of thyself;

Since we needs must first have met,

I have seen thee high and low,

Thirty years or more,

and yet

'Twas a face I did not know; Thou hast now, go where I may,

Fifty greetings in a day.

Ere a leaf is on a bush,
In the time before the thrush
Has a thought about its nest,
Thou wilt come with half a call,
Spreading out thy glossy breast
Like a careless prodigal ;

Telling tales about the sun,

When we've little warmth or none.

Poets, vain men in their mood !

Travel with the multitude:

Never heed them; I aver,

That they all are wanton wooers;

But the thrifty cottager,

Who stirs little out of doors,

Joys to spy thee near her home

Spring is coming, thou art come!

Comfort have thou of thy merit,
Kindly, unassuming spirit!
Careless of thy neighbourhood,

Thou dost show thy pleasant face
On the moor, and in the wood,
In the lane there's not a place,
Howsoever mean it be,

But 't is good enough for thee.

Ill befall the yellow flowers,
Children of the flaring hours!
Buttercups, that will be seen,
Whether we will see or no;

Others, too, of lofty mien :

They have done as worldlings do,

Taken praise that should be thine, Little, humble Celandine!

Prophet of delight and mirth

Scorn'd and slighted upon earth!
Herald of a mighty band,
Of a joyous train ensuing,
Singing at my heart's command,
In the lanes my thoughts pursuing,
I will sing, as doth behove,
Hymns in praise of what I love!

12*

THE ORCHIS.

THE Greeks named this plant Orchis, from the form of the roots in many of the species; and this appellation is now generally adopted in most of the European languages. In addition to the Greek name, the Latins often call it Satyrion, because the early Romans believed it to be the food of the Satyrs, and that it excited them to the excesses which in fabulous history are ascribed to them. Its old English names are Standlewort and Kingfingers.

In consequence either of a want of taste in floriculture, or of a foolish predilection for ancient prejudices, this beautiful flower has been excluded from the parterre of Flora; but so anxious have been the Botanists to collect its different species from all quarters of the world, that from their exertions we now possess upwards of eighty distinct species, besides numerous varieties of several of the kinds.

THE BEE ORCHIS.

R. SNOW, ESQ.

SEE, Delia, see this image bright!

Why starts my fair one at the sight?

It mounts not on obtrusive wing,

Nor threats thy breast with angry sting:
Admire, as close the insect lies,

Its thin-wrought plume and honey'd thighs:
Whilst on this flow'ret's velvet breast,

It seems as though 't were lull'd to rest,
Nor might its fairy wings unfold,
Enchain'd in aromatic gold.

Think not to set the captive free
'Tis but the picture of a bee.

Yet wonder not that Nature's power
Should paint an insect in a flower;
And stoop to means that bear in part
Resemblance to imperfect art

Nature, who could that form inspire
With strength and swiftness, life and fire,
And bid it search each spicy vale
Where flowers their fragrant souls exhale;
And, labouring for the parent hive,
With murmurs make the wild alive.

For when in Parian stone we trace
Some best-remember'd form or face;
Or see on radiant canvass rise
An imitative Paradise;

And feel the warm affections glow,
Pleased at the pencil's mimic show;