And the naïad Lily was glean'd afar,

Her head on her gentle breast reclining;
The Flower of the Cross and Bethlem's Star,
High hopes and promises combining.

And another bud thou would'st idling bring,
With blushing mien, and shy caress-
For we lov'd and cherish'd that wildling thing,
Though the wise call it Love-in-Idleness.*

With impulse deeper, in darker hour,

We gather'd, of brighter things unheeding—
Kiss'd it, and wept o'er the desolate flower,
Which the desolate heart names Love-lies-bleeding.

No, love, thou wilt never forget the hour,

Nor the communings deep of the hallowed spot,
Where we gather'd each sweet symbolic flower,
And around them wove Forget-me-not.

Blackwood's Magazine.

This is a variety of the wild pansy violet, or heart's-ease, Viola tricolor, -"the little western flower, made purple by Love's wound."-Mids. N. Dream, ii. 2.

THE BOG-PIMPERNEL.

AMID the lone and heathy wild,
Where cultivation never smil'd,
And man, with undelighted eye,
Passes the desert region by;
Lo, there Tenella makes her bed,
And lifts unseen her modest head.

Of fairer form and brighter hue

Than many a flower that drinks the dew,

Amid the garden's brilliant show,

Where scarce the roughening breeze may blow,

Her charms the graceful flower unveils,
And bends beneath the moorland gales.

Oh, it is thus, when grief's keen blast
Has o'er the chasten'd spirit pass'd,
Till all the future lot seems trac'd
On sorrow's lone and dreary waste,
It finds unthought of sweets that bloom
Amid the desert's chilling gloom.

These, lovelier than the fragile flowers
That wave in joy's luxurious bowers,
Sweet as the buds of Sharon's rose
Amid the wild their leaves unclose,
And give to Heaven's pure gales alone
Perfections to the world unknown.

And thus it is, that Heaven can bless
The bleak and lonely wilderness ;
And thus in sorrow's lowly state,
Where all seems drear and desolate,
Become the thorny wastes of care,
Amid neglect and ruin, fair.

Wild Garland.

The barren waste and mossy bog are not without their peculiar plants, to cheer the botanist in his rambles. In such wild situations, he will not unfrequently meet with the most beautiful specimens: as, the Bog-Pimpernel, Anagallis tenella, with its rose-coloured blossoms;-the Grass of Parnassus, Parnassia palustris, with its silver-white pencilled corolla; and the Bog-bean, Menyanthes trifoliata, with its delicately fringed petals :-flowers which yield to none of our wild plants either in beauty, or in elegance.

There's not a heath, however rude,

But hath some little flower,

To brighten up its solitude,

And scent the evening hour.

There's not a heart, however cast
By grief and sorrow down,
But hath some memory of the past,
To love and call its own.

TO THE WILLOW-TREE.

THOU art to all lost love the best,
The only true plant found,

Wherewith young men and maids distress'd
And left of love, are crown'd.

When once the lover's rose is dead,
Or laid aside forlorne,

Then willow-garlands, 'bout the head
Bedew'd with tears, are worne.

When with neglect, the lover's bane,
Poore maids rewarded be

For their lost love, their only gaine
Is but a wreathe of thee.

And underneath thy cooling shade,

When weary of the light,

The love-spent youth and love-sick maid

Come to weep out the night.

HERRICK.

The Willow, from the earliest times, has been dedicated to grief and sadness. "I'll wear a willow-garland for his sake." Hen. VI. Old Fuller calls it, "a sad tree, whereof such who have lost their love, make their mourning garlands; and we know that exiles hung up their harps upon such doleful supporters. This tree delighteth in moist places, and is triumphant in the Isle of Ely; it groweth incredibly fast, it being a by-word in this country, that the profit of willows will buy the owner a horse before that by other trees will pay for his saddle." Sir J. E. Smith has enumerated no fewer than one hundred and forty-one species of willows, Salices, of which only sixty-six are British.

To name the uses of the willow tribes

Were endless task. The basket's various forms

For various purposes of household thrift,

The wicker-chair of size and shape antique,

The rocking couch of sleeping infancy;

These, with unnumbered other forms and kinds,
Give bread to hands unfit for other work.

GRAHAME.

THE BLUE PIMPERNEL.

WHILE cedar, beech, or oak, its head
Lifts high with giant arms :
Beneath, how many sisters spread
Their lowly winning charms.

The daisy thus, and violet grow,
The flower of purple bells,
Thus lilies of the valley blow
In shady, briery dells.

These crops each little maid with joy,

And decks her golden hair:
These gladly plucks each little boy,

As yet unknowing care.

But say, of blushy lip and cheek
And sweetly-laughing eye,

When rambling pretty flowers to seek,

O did you never spy,

On sunny bank, or tilthy field,

Or nigh the garden wall,

That which to none in grace may yield,

The lowliest of them all?

When shines the sun, and fled the dew,

Nor watery clouds arise,

It fair unveils its face to view,

A copy of the skies.

The ruby and the amethyst

In it are lovely met:

This, in each petal bright impress'd,
That, in the middle set.

Ye know it not,-a friend intreats
You, little maids, to run,

And mingle with your posy sweets
This flow'ret of the sun.

And as within your hand it glows,

O mark the PoWER DIVINE,
Which gave the feeblest plant that grows

Like Heaven's own blue to shine.

J. R.

The Blue Pimpernel, Anagallis cærulea, is only a variety of the Anag. arvensis, as proved by late experiments: Mag. of Nat. Hist., vol. 3, p. 537. Botanists should be particularly on their guard against being misled by the colours of flowers. Nimium ne crede colori, was the maxim of Linnæus, Phil. Bot. § 266 and in judging of Species, Colour, in which the Florist prides himself, ought, in a great measure, to be disregarded. Were this and other trivial points in Botany attended to, several modern authors would not so frequently convert varieties into species, and species into genera. Such needless changes in Natural History, as multiply synonyms, are always to be deprecated.

THE HEART'S-EASE.

THERE is a little flower that's found
In almost every garden ground,

'Tis lowly, but 'tis sweet :

And if its name express its power,

A more invaluable flower

You'll never, never meet.

No-not the wealth of Chili's mine,
Dear flow'ret, may compare with thine,
For thee I'd give it all;

But if the wealthy will not bear
Thy modest charms in their parterre,
Grow 'neath my garden-wall.

I said in every garden ground;
Perhaps in Eden 'twas not found,

For there it was not wanted;