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And drooping on its tender stem,

As the low night-wind swells,
It seems in many a dew-drop gem,

Like Folly's Cap, and Bells;
Rung by the wind in frolic play,
Whene'er they sportive pass that way.

The Musk Rose loads the evening breeze,

With its own rich perfume,
Wafting far incense thro' the trees,

From its thick clustering bloom;
Charming, as Beauty's palmiest hours,

Capricious as its smiles,
One Summer sees it crown'd with flowers,

The next no breezy wiles
Can lure one bud, where thousands smiled,
And hence capricious Beauty styled.

And what is beauty ? - lo, the sun

That left the blooming spray,
Shines once again the boughs upon-

The Roses where are they?
Some strew with leaves the grassy plain,

Flashing in crimson hue,
Some languish there, that ne'er again

Shall drink the evening dew;
And fleeting Beauty's sadden'd close,
Is traced in the pale, wither'd Rose.

What brings the bright and shining leaf,

The scarlet Poppy wears ?
A consolation for our grief,

A solace for our cares ;
The ancients wreathed the brows of sleep,

With the rich Poppy flowers,
For slumber dries the eyes that weep,

And pictures happier hours;
And in its scarlet blossom rests

A healing balm for wounded breasts.

Yes flowers have tones — God gave to each

A language of its own,
And bade the simple blossom teach

Where'er its seeds are sown;
His voice is on the mountain's height

And by the river's side,
Where flowers blush in glowing light,

In Lowliness, or Pride;
We feel, o'er all the blooming sod,
It is the language of our God.

He spreads the earth an open book

In characters of life,
All where the human eye doth look

Seems with his glory rife;
He paints upon the burning sky

In every gleaming star,
The wonder of his homes on high,

Shining to faith afar;

His voice is in the tempest's wrath,
And in the soft south zephyr's path.

For us, frail, feeble things of clay,

Are all these beauties given,
The glorious, wide-spread orb of day,

And the bright starry heaven;
The far-stretch'd waters, and the land,

The mountain, and the plain, These are the free gifts of his hand,

And shall they plead in vain ? Rocks, hills, and flowers, their homage pay, And shall we worship less than they?

No— from the green enamellid sod

Let the soul's praises rise, The living temple of our God,

Arch'd by his own blue skies. There, let thy grateful praise be heard,

There, let thy prayers be given,
And with the hymns of flower and bird,

They shall ascend to heaven,
And sooner reach the eternal bowers
Breathed over beds of blushing flowers.

CACIA. Robinia Pseudacacia. Class 17, DIADELPHIA. Order: DECANDRIA. The savages of North America have consecrated the Acacia to the genius of chaste love; their bows are made from the incorruptible wood of this tree, their arrows are armed

with one of its thorns. These fierce children of the desert, whom nothing can subdue, conceive a sentiment of delicacy; perhaps what they are unable to express by words, but they understand the sentiment by the expression of a branch of blooming Acacia. The young savage, like the city coquette, understands this seducing language perfectly. The Acacia is a native of North America, and received its name from the botanist, Robin.

Our rocks are rough, but smiling there
The Acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less
For flowering in a wilderness-
Then come-thy Arab maid will be
The loved and lone Acacia tree. MOORE.

Sweet Hesperus ! thou diamond on the brow
Of Ethiopian night, retard awhile
Thy pilgrimage to that Elysian isle,
Where nightly thou art bound; and me allow,
Meek messenger of Love! on thee to gaze.
Methinks, pure star! now looking on thy face,
That like the Moon thou shin'st with borrow'd

And yet deservest well men's wonderous praise.
In loveliest feature proudly now I see
Why thou in heaven outrivall’st thy compeers.
My love is surely here a sun to thee:
Thine is the chaste and gracious smile she wears ;
Reflective, thus she lends thee matchless light,
And with her beauty thou adorn'st the night.



CACIA ROSE. Robinia Hispid 17, DIADELPHIA. Order: DECAND has produced nothing that may vie ness and in elegance of appeara this beautiful flowering shrub; its branches,the gaiety of its verd

clusters of rose-coloured flowers, of ribands, hung on branches clothed with hairs of a brown, never fail to excite admiration, and have combind der it a proper emblem of elegance. Its appearance ! compared to that of an elegant female in her ball dress.



The fairness of her face no tongue can tell, For she the daughters of all women's race, And angels eke, in beautie doth excel, Sparkled on her from God's own glorious face, And more increast by her own goodly grace, That it doth far exceed all human thought, Ne can on earth compared be to aught.


There's no miniature In her face, but is a copious theme, Which would, discours'd at large of, make a volu What clear arch'd brows! what sparkling eyes! the Contending with the roses in her cheeks, Who shall most set them off. What ruby lips ;Or unto what can I compare her neck, But to a rock of crystal ? Every limb Proportion'd to love's wish, and in their neatness Add lustre to the richness of her habit, Not borrow'd from it.


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