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ANSWER.

Yes, fair as the Siren, but false as her song,
The world's painted shadows, that lure us along;
Like the mist on the mountain, the foam on the deep,
Or the voices of friends, that we greet in our sleep,
Are the pleasures of earth,—and I mourn that to heaven,
I gave not the heart which to folly was given.

Ladies' Magazine. Vol. I.

YEW.
Taxus.

Class 21. Order 16. A genus of 9 species found in Japan, and the Cape of Good Hope, in Europe and the Americas. A tree associated with melancholy and funereal gloom.

PENITENCE.

The mourning Yew, that breathes of gloomy care,
Of early doom, and penitential prayer.

SENTIMENT.

We will not ask what thorn has found
Keen entrance to thy bosom fair,
If love hath dealt a deathless wound,
Or deeper folly woke despair

We only say, the sinless clime,

On which is bent thy streaming eye,
Hath pardon for the darkest crime,
Though erring man the boon deny:-

Anon.

We only say, the prayerful breast,
The crystal tear of contrite pain,
Have power to ope the portal blest,
Where pride and pomp have toiled in vain.
Token for 1828.

ZINNIA.
Zinnia. multiflora.

Class 19. Order 2. Native of South America, except the species Multiflora. Found on the banks of the Mississippi; Flowers solitary, red; rays red or yellow. Some of this genus in Peru have purple or yellow flowers.

ABSENCE.

The Zinnia's solitary flower,

Which blooms in forests lone and deep,
Are like the visions fresh and bright,
That faithful, absent hearts will keep.

SENTIMENT.

Anon.

I formed for thee a small bouquet,
A keepsake near thy heart to lay,
Because 'tis there I know full well,
That charity and kindness dwell.
And in some lonely, silent hour,
When thou shalt yield to memory's power,
And let her fondly lead thee o'er
The scenes that thou hast past before,
To absent friends and days gone by,

Then, should these meet thy pensive eye,
A true memento may they be,

Of one, whose bosom owes to thee,
So many hours enjoyed in gladness,
That else perhaps had passed in sadness,
And many a golden dream of joy,
Untarnished and without alloy :—
O, still my fervent prayer will be,
"Heaven's choicest blessings rest on thee."

Miss Gould.

THE

POESY OF FLOWERS.

THE FLOWER SPIRIT.

I AM the spirit that dwells in the flower;
Mine is the exquisite music that flies,
When silence and moonlight reign over each bower,
That blooms in the glory of tropical skies.

I woo the bird, with his melody glowing,

To flit in the sunshine, and warble its strain,
And mine is the odor, in turn, that bestowing,
The songster is paid for his music again.

There dwells no sorrow where I am abiding;
Care is a stranger and troubles us not,

And the winds as they pass, when too hastily riding,
I woo, and they tenderly glide o'er the spot.
They pause and we glow in their rugged embraces,
They drink our warm breath, rich with odor and song,
Then hurry away to their desolate places,*

And look for us hourly, and think of us long.

Who of the dull earth that's moving around us,
Would ever imagine, that, nursed in a rose,
At the opening of Spring, our destiny found us
A prisoner until the first bud should unclose;

Then, as the dawn of light breaks upon us,
Our winglets of silk we unfold to the air,
And leap off in joy to the music that won us,
And made us the tenants of climates so fair?
American Common Place Book of Poetry-

THE SWEET Brier.

Our sweet, autumnal, western-scented wind,
Robs of its odors none so sweet a flower,
In all the blooming waste it left behind,

As that the Sweet-brier yields it; and the shower
Wets not a rose that buds in beauty's bower
One half so lovely ;—yet it grows along

The poor girl's pathway, by the poor man's door,
Such are the simple folks it dwells among,
And humble as the bud, so humble be the song.

I love it, for it takes its untouched stand, Not in the vase that sculptors decorate; Its sweetness all is of my native land; And e'en its fragrant leaf has not its mate Among the perfumes which the rich and great Buy from the odors of the spicy east. You love your flowers and plants, and will The little four-leaved rose that I love best, That freshest will awake, and sweetest go to rest? J. G. C. Brainard.

you hate

TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN.

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,
And colored with the heaven's own blue,

That openest when the quiet light
Succeeds the keen and frosty night :

Thou comest not when violets lean
O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple drest,

Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.

Thou waitest late, and com'st alone,
When woods are bare and birds are flown,
And frosts and shortening days portend
The aged year is near its end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue-blue-as if that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.

I would that thus, when I shall see
The hour of death draw near to me,
Hope, blossoming within my heart,
May look to heaven as I depart.

Bryant.

WITH WILD FLOWERS TO A SICK FRIEND.

Rise from the dells where ye first were born,
From the tangled beds of the weed and thorn.
Rise! for the dews of the morn are bright,
And haste away with your brows of light.

-Should the green-house patricians with gathering frown,

On your plebeian vestures look haughtily down,

Shrink not; for His finger your heads hath bowed,

Who heeds the lowly and humbles the proud.

-The tardy spring, and the frosty sky,
Have meted your robes with a miser's eye,
And checked the blush of your blossoms free-
With a gentler friend your home shall be;

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