Why stay not till the primrose pale,
With simple beauty spots the dale,
Till Violets load the passing gale

With luscious balm ?
Till moist-eyed April's genial showers,
Rouse Flora's train of painted flowers;
And songsters fill the leafy bowers

With music's charm?

Fair flower! thy hardy front defies
The rigour of inclement skies;
The blast of Winter o'er thee flies
Nor chills thy form :

Thus virtue stands with placid mien,
While whirlwinds desolate the scene,

And cheer'd by hope, with mind serene

Smiles at the storm.

JOHN WEBB.*

The author of this pleasing poem was formerly a journeyman-weaver.

THE MOSS.

WHAT is that little creeping weed,
Whose verdure oft we see,

Hidden beneath the humblest reed,
Borne on the loftiest tree?

Beside the swelling fount it grows;
O'erhangs the limpid glass;
And freshens where the springlet flows
Among the matted grass.

'Tis Nature's livery round the globe,
Where'er her wonders range:
The fresh embroidery of her robe,

Through every season's change.

H

Through every clime, on every shore,
It clings, or creeps, or twines,—
Where bleak Norwegian Winters roar;
Where Tropic Summer shines.

With it the squirrel builds its nest;
In it the dormouse sleeps ;
It warms e'en Philomela's breast;
Through it the lizard creeps.

And every flower compares with loss,
When curious Flora throws
A veil of richest freshest Moss
Around her loveliest rose.

To deck the cottage in decay
Its various guise is seen;
Upon the walls 'tis crisp'd and grey—
The roof is velvet green.

There-fibrous, floating in the air;
Here-hoary, curl'd and light;
Like tresses fine of maiden's hair,
Or hermit's lock of white.

It decks the cloister's twilight pale,
The abbey's ruin'd aisle ;
Light as the vestal's silken veil,

That muffles beauty's smile.

And who but loves the tranquil calm
Of the fallen convent's cell,

When Summer evening's breath is balm,

And silence walks the dell?

When solitude, sweet nun! is there,

And nought around is heard, But piety's sweet vesper-prayer, And evening's love-lorn bird.

There I upon the moss-fring'd stone,

Might sit, and muse, and sigh,
To think revolv'd for me alone,
Years coming and gone by :

Some moment in the ETERNAL's plan,
I to myself must be,

In awful thought the sum of man,
Time and Eternity.

This thought should strike where'er this weed
In simple guise I see;
Creeping beneath the whispering reed-
Borne on the loftiest tree.

Or found when contemplation calls,

The cushion of my seat;

The arras of my temple walls;
The carpet at my feet.

JOHN HOLLAND.

"Muscos et muscas quærat, cui nihil aliud est reliquum," was the objection urged of old, against the ingenious investigators of the minuter branches of Natural History. Those who have once tasted the pleasure, that the examination of these minima of creation affords, will not be deterred from the pursuit by the laugh of ignorance, or the fastidiousness of pretended superiority. "Do not depreciate," writes the amiable Southey, "any pursuit which leads men to contemplate the works of their Creator! The Linnæan traveller, who, when you look over the pages of his journal, seems to you a mere botanist, has in his pursuit, as you have in yours, an object that occupies his time, and fills his mind, and satisfies his heart. It is as innocent as yours, and as disinterested, - perhaps more so, because it is not so ambitious. Nor is the pleasure, which he partakes in investigating the structure of a plant, less pure, or less worthy, than what you derive from perusing the noblest productions of human genius."-Progress of Society, vol. ii. p. 369.

-

How sweet to muse upon the skill display'd
(Infinite skill!) in all that He has made:
To trace in Nature's most minute design
The signature and stamp of Power Divine.

CowPER.

HERBS.

HERBS too she knew, and well of each could speak,
That in her garden sipp'd the silvery dew;
Where no vain flower disclos'd a gaudy streak;
But Herbs for use, and physick, not a few,
Of grey renown, within those borders grew;
The tufted Basil, pun-provoking Thyme,
Fresh Balm, and Marigold of cheerful hue:
The lowly Gill, that never dares to climb;
And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to rhyme.
Yet Euphrasy may not be left unsung,

That gives dim eyes to wander leagues around:
And pungent Radish, biting infant's tongue;
And Plantain ribb'd, that heals the reaper's wound;
And Marjoram sweet, in shepherds' posy found:
And Lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom
Shall be, erewhile, in arid bundles bound,
To lurk amidst the labours of her loom,

And crown her 'kerchiefs clean, with mickle rare perfume.

And here trim Rosemarine, that whilom crown'd
The daintiest garden of the proudest peer:

Ere driven from its envied site, it found

A sacred shelter from its branches here;

Where, edged with gold, its glitt'ring skirts appear.
Oh wassail days! O customs meet and well!
Ere this was banished from its lofty sphere,
Simplicity then sought this humble cell,

Nor ever would she more with thane and lordling dwell.
SHENSTONE.

"In ages of simplicity, when every man was the usual dispenser of good or bad, benefit or injury, to his own household or his cattle, ere the veterinary art was known, or the drugs of other regions introduced, necessity looked up to the products of its own clime, and the real and fanciful virtues of them were called to the trial, and manifests the reasonableness of bestowing upon plants and herbs such names as might immediately indicate their several uses.

Mo

dern science may wrap up the meaning of its epithets in Greek and Latin terms; but in very many cases they are mere translations of these despised 'old, vulgar names.' What pleasure it must have afforded the poor sufferer in body and limb, when he knew that his good neighbour, who came to bathe his wounds, or assuage his inward torments, brought with him such things as all-heal, bruise-wort, gout-weed, and fever-few (fugio), and twenty other such comfortable mitigators of his afflictions. And then the good herbalist of old professed to have plants which were all-good: they could assuage anger by their loosestrife; and they had honesty, true-love, and heart's-ease. The cayennes, the soys, the catchups, and extra-tropical condiments of these days were not required, when the next thicket would produce, poor-man's pepper, sauce-alone, and hedge-mustard; and the woods and wilds around, when they yielded such delicate viands as, fat-hen, lamb's-quarters, way-bread, butter and eggs, with codlins and cream, afforded no despicable bill of fare. No one ever yet thought of accusing old simplers of the vice of avarice, or love of lucre; yet their thrift is always to be seen: we have their humble penny-wort, herb two-pence, moneywort, silverweed, and gold. We may smile, perhaps, at the cognomens, or the commemorations of friendships or of worth, recorded by the old simplers, at their herbs, Bennet, Robert, Christopher, Gerard, or Basil; but do the names so bestowed by modern science read better, or sound better? it has, Lightfootia, Lapeyrousia, Hedwigia, Schkuhria, and Scheuchzeria; and surely we may admit, in common benevolence, such partialities as, good King Henry, sweet William, sweet Marjory, sweet Cicely, Mary-Gold and Rose.-The terms of modern science waver daily; names undergo an annual change, fade with the leaf, and give place to others; but the ancient terms, which some may ridicule, have remained for centuries, and will yet remain till nature is swallowed up by art." Knapp's Journal of a Naturalist a work which forms an excellent companion to White's Natural History of Selborne.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

SWEET bird! that sing'st away the early hours
Of Winters past, or coming, void of care,
Well pleased with delights, which present are,―
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers;
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers;
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare,
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers :
What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs
(Alter'd in sweetness,) sweetly is not driven,
Quite to forget Earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs,
And lift a reverend eye, and thought to Heaven?
Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays.

W. DRUMMOND, of Hawthornden, 1620.