PINK, WHITE.

Dianthus Albus.

LANGUAGE-FAIR AND FASCINATING.

WHAT right have you, madam, gazing in your shining mirror daily,

Getting so by heart your beauty, which all others must adore,

While

you

draw the golden ringlets down your fingers, to vow gayly,

You will wed no man that's good to God—and nothing

more?

MISS BARRETT.

You'll speed your conquering way, I trow,

Through hearts, however narrow;

Those lips are Cupid's graceful bow,

That smile his sunlit arrow.

Our witches are no longer old

And wrinkled beldams, Satan-sold,

MRS. OSGOOD.

But young, and gay, and laughing creatures,
With the heart's sunshine on their features;

Their sorcery ·
the light which dances
When the raised lid unveils its glances,
And the low-breathed and gentle tone
Faintly responding unto ours,
Soft, dream-like as a fairy's moan,
Above its nightly-closing flowers.

WHITTIER.

POPPY, RED.

Papaver Rheas.

LANGUAGE EVANESCENCE.

PLEASURES are like poppies spread;
You seize the flower, the bloom is shed.

Dawn, gentle flower,

From the morning earth!
We will gaze and wonder
At thy wondrous birth!

Bloom, gentle flower!

Lover of the light,

Sought by wind and shower,
Fondled by the night.

Fade, gentle flower!

All thy white leaves close;
Having shown thy beauty,
Time 'tis for repose.

Die, gentle flower,
In the silent sun!

BURNS.

PROCTOR.

You can charm to sleep the physical powers
With the oil distilled from a poppy's leaves;
Say, can your science find us flowers

Whose magic may hush a heart that grieves?

I can give to this saddened breast
Many an hour of happy rest;
On his eyes I will lay a dream,
And all things beautiful shall seem;
The curtains of his couch shall be
Forgetfulness of misery;

MRS. OSGOOD.

The night winds to his charméd ear
Shall sound like words he loves to hear;
And Love shall fan his aching brow,

And sing of peace in accents low;
Him Pity, with a fond caress,
Shall gently to her bosom press:
Thus in sweet slumbers, free from pain,
His smiles shall all come back again.

FROM THE SWEDISH OF FREDERIKA BREMER.

My eyes make pictures when they're shut:
I see a fountain large and fair,

A willow and a ruined hut,

And thee, and me, and Mary there.

O Mary, make thy gentle lap our pillow;

Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green willow.

COLERIDGE.

PRIMROSE.

Primula.

LANGUAGE-MODEST WORTH.

AND while "Lord! Lord!" the pious tyrants cried
Who in the poor their Master crucified,
His daily prayer, far better understood
In acts than words, was simply doing good.

WHITTIER.

Abou Ben Adheim (may his tribe increase)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold.
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adheim bold,

And to the presence in his room he said,

"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head,

And, with a look made all of sweet accord,

Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Adheim. 66

Nay, not so," Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,

But cheerly still, and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one WHO LOVES HIS FELLOW-MEN."

The angel came again, next night,

With a long train of wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had blessed, And lo! Ben Adheim's name LED ALL THE REST.

LEIGH HUNT.

PRIMROSE, EVENING.

Enothera Odorata.

LANGUAGE-INCONSTANCY.

I SUNNED myself once in her smile:
She has turned its soft beams upon one
Who cares not a pin for her; while
He triumphs, and I am undone.

I lived on the sweets of her lips;
I must seek for a supper elsewhere:
Another that banquet may sip;
Another may play with her hair.

And why is my rival so dear?
And why is she out when I call?
His income's five thousand a year !

And mine, it is nothing at all!

-

MRS. OSGOOD.

And was it for this I looked forward so long,
And shrunk from the sweetness of Italy's song,

And turned from the glance of the dark girl of Spain,
And wept for my country again and again?

And was it for this to my casement I crept

To gaze on the deep when I dreamed that I slept? To think of fond meetings—the welcome—the kiss The friendly hand's pressure ah! was it for this?

T. H. BAYLEY.