"Now peep'd forth one, right beauteous to behold,
Whose coat was like a brooklet that the sun
Had all embroider'd with its crooket gold,
It was so quaintly wrought and overrun
With spangled traceries-most meet for one
That was a warden for the pearly streams;
And as he stept out of the cowslip dun
His jewels sparkled in the pale moon gleams,
And shot into the air their pointed beams.
Quoth he-We bear the gold and silver keys
Of bubbling streams and fountains, that below
Course through the veiny earth-which when they
freeze

Into hard chrysolites, we bid to flow,

Creeping with easy course, when, as they go,
We guide their windings to melodious falls,
At whose soft murmurings-so sweet and low-
Poets have tun'd their smoothest madrigals,
To sing to ladies in their banquet halls."

There are few subjects in the world of Nature more endearing to the admirer of the floral kingdom than the rose; it is one ot the most beautiful flowers in fair flora's train. It is nearly 3,000 years since Solomon said, "Let us crown ourselves with rose-buds before they are withered." William Shorrocks, one of our local poets, is the author of the following sweet lines on the rose-bud:

66

Against a little rustic cot,

A moss rose tree was towering;

And clustering round its antique porch,

A few full buds were flowering.'

Sir Walter Scott also composed the following beautiful lines on the rose :

"The rose is fairest when it is budding new,

And hope is brightest when it dawns from tears. The rose is sweetest washed in morning dew, And love is loveliest when embalmed in tears. O, wilding rose whom fancy thus endears,

I bid your blossoms in my bonnet wave, Emblem of hope and love through future years." The following couplet of the poem shows a poet's sympathy for the flowers and the gentle hand tending on the broken stems-this is the poetry of the piece; that hand unknown to us, but it is to the flower what the good Samaritan was to the man that fell among thieves :

"Yet one within that perfum'd space,
Its fading head was bending,
Some wanton hand had broke the stem,
Some gentler one was tending."

While we admire the man with fine feelings for the beautiful and tender in Nature, at the same time we detest that ruthless, base, and ignoble wretch who would wantonly destroy the fern in all its variety of shape, the rose in all its variety of perfume, the geranium in all its variety of colour:

"Pause stranger in thy worldly course,
Around thee flowers are blooming,
Sent by a gracious hand from heaven,

To cheer when clouds are glooming."

These are lovely words, and they ought to send infinite hope into the soul of man, supposing he will ponder them well over. They are not to be compared with the glowing fire of a Burns, nor with the creative genius of Shelly, nor with the heavenly flights of a Milton, nor with the poetical flights of some of the lesser English poets on the same subject. I will conclude the present sketchy paper on what some of the early poets have said about flowers with a few lines from one of the Lake poets. I have often, like Wordsworth, danced with the ragwort and the daffodil in the country "when viewing many a landscape o'er." Yes, I can say with him

"I wandered, lonely as a cloud

That floats on high, o'er vales and hills,
When, all at once, I saw a crowd-

A host of golden daffodils ;

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee :-

A poet could not but be gay

In such a jocund company;

I gazed-and gazed, but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought.

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils."

At the close of the lecture, Mrs. LEO H. GRINDON said:-I am sure we have all been much interested in Mr. Costley's lecture. It has taken us into the fields, amongst flowers, and into woods. We can surely all see these wonderful, beautiful truths that the poets have described to him. It seems as though the poets had specially written for Mr. Costley. We should take up a book as though the poet, or writer, were speaking to us directly, and not to the multitude. I

cannot tell you the delight with which I have listened to Mr. Costley's remarks upon Chaucer. That is a favourite subject with me. I have often lectured on Chaucer, and I have often taken Chaucer as a field naturalist. Part of Mr. Costley's recitations really occur in my own lecture. But there is a very pretty line of Chaucer that Mr. Costley did not give you. That is, when Chaucer goes into the green fields, he speaks of them as

"The fields powdered with daisies."

To me that is a beautiful expression. At another time Chaucer goes into the fields, and he says:"The ground is beautiful with tapestry that nature has made herself." That is an expression we cannot match anywhere in literature. To think of the ground as a piece of beautiful tapestry spread out by nature herself! Poets, by reason of the divinity of their minds, say that happiness does not consist in riches, or anything that is beyond the reach of the most ordinary mind to catch hold of; and, therefore, if we would be happy, let us be wise as the poets, and look for happiness in the simple by-ways of nature, and not spend our time grubbing away in the counting. house. The coin will never bring us a shred of happiness. No matter whether we are ill or well, we can find something in nature which will be sure to gladden our eyes, cheer our hearts, and make our lives bright and cheerful, instead of sordid and dirty, as so many of the lives around us are. In conclusion, I feel intensely what the poet has so well expressed in one line

"These are Thy glorious works, Parent of Good!"

UNDER THE SYCAMORE TREES.

Yonder, the most conspicuous of all sights,
And soul and centre of our chief delights,
A splendid grove of sycamores is seen,
Composed so well, and with such space between;
The trees are grand as well as fair to see,
And very marvels of prosperity-
Broad leaves of mingled green and gold,

And fashioned fair, their well-posed branches hold.
The sycamore in June, or hot July,

Bears flowers that always please the cultured eye,
And in their mass, and combination make
A picture such as science cannot take;
And such as art could never reproduce,
Though genius made of all resources use.
Four hundred years have passed, and fifty more,
Since to these isles was brought the sycamore
From Europe, where it long before was known,
And in the continental groves and forests grown.
Unknown is he, who, thinking of a time

He ne'er could know, brought beauty to our clime,
And made us richer for his fameless deed,
For our's the harvest is, though his the seed.

How fair the goodly trees, and yet how grand,

In their domain, nigh Irwell's stream they stand! A shelter or a shade from storm or sun,

A picture for the mind to dwell upon,

A proof that He who made and governs all
Cares for His sons not less since Adam's Fall.

Can we forget the story in the "Book

Of Books," how one the coming crowd forsook,
And climbed (to see his Lord) a sycamore-
Zaccheus, he who entertained a guest

That made the world, and all his household bless'd?
Then was proclaimed, what needs proclaiming still,
That they are Abraham's sons who do His will.

O, goodly sycamores, how soon ye fade,

As if of winter's frosts and snows afraid!
Could you but stay with us, in fullest bloom,
Till all the woods had lost their summer gloom,
Till every feathered minstrel ceased to sing,
And only swollen brooks were murmuring!
Alas! the best go first; but being best
Deserve more love and honour than the rest.
Regrets are vain, we only know "to-day,"
And love is hardly love that seeks delay.

The Poor and Poor Laws.