"The laurel hath a loftier name, The rose a brighter hue,

But Heaven and I'd be clad the same

In fair and fadeless blue:

No blood-stain'd chief

Ere plucks this leaf,

To make his wreath more gay;

Though still its flower

Decks village bower,

And twines the shafts of May."

Sweet Florence! may thy gentle breast
As artless pleasures swell,

As those thou deemest still to rest

In thy beloved blue-bell !

And may'st thou feel,

Though time shall steal

Thy beauty's freshest hue,

A bliss still shed

Around thy head,—

Unchanged like Heaven's own blue!

R. T.

SONNET TO A FRIEND.

BY THE REV. ALEXANDER DYCE.

In the deep mazes of our ancient wood,
When through the illumin'd foliage of the trees
The setting sun burns golden, and the breeze
Sighs like a spirit; in that solitude,

Thine is a pleasure, little understood

By those whom Fashion's livery can please ; By those whom Avarice and Ambition seize, Or Sensual Joy with her unhallowed brood: O, not for them the green entangled bowers

Boon Nature weaves, her still retreats among! O, not for them her fragrance and her flowers, As move the various-vestur'd Months along! Not for the blind her splendours Painting pours,

Nor Music, for the deaf, her Tuscan song.

MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S REFLECTIONS.

THE hour is come, the gentle hour of rest,
When soars the mind all earthly cares above,
And holier feelings fill the thoughtful breast
Sacred to peace, to piety, and love.

How soft, how beautiful the eye of Heav'n
Sheds its pure rays of unobtrusive light,
Now darkness from our northern skies is driv'n,
And twilight clears the sombre brow of night.

Though sweet the timid blush of new born day,
Like dawning love asham'd of his own fire,
Though bright the glorious sun's meridian ray,

Like the gay hope love's glowing noons inspire;

The sweetest morn oft smiles but to deceive,
The brightest sun cheers only to destroy,
So love's fair dawn doth tears and sorrow leave,
And wither'd peace succeeds hope's dazzling joy.

But is there not a twilight of the mind,
Some mild consoling ray that lingers there;
A gleam which passion's sunshine leaves behind,
To save the darken'd bosom from despair?

Yes-such the tender light which reason flings
O'er disappointment's darkest, deadliest hour;
Such comfort" heavenly contemplation" brings
To that firm heart which owns Religion's power.

E. B.

THE FLOWER-GIRL'S SONG.

SWEET flowers, Spring flowers, from valley and grove,
All pluck'd at the freshest of day:

Spring flowers are the language of friendship and love,
And speak what the tongue cannot say :
The blush on the rose

Will affection disclose,

Which words are too weak to display ;

And the violet's deep blue

Tells of constancy true,

Though the lover or friend be away.

Then buy my sweet flowers, fresh flowers wash'd in dew,

Of the Spring-time the soonest and rarest ;

Youths and maidens, remember, they're emblems of

you,

Your first bloom of life is the fairest!

I have flowers for the sports and the garlands of May, Or around your green arbours to weave;

There are some for the pensive, and some for the gay, And sweets for the morning or eve :

Here's the honey-bee's bower,

Here's the butterfly's flower,