Oh, fresh was the air where it reared its head,
Wi' the radiance and odours its young leaves shed.

When the morning sun rose frae his eastern ha',
This bonnie wee flower was the earliest of a'
To open its cups sealed up in the dew,

And spread out its leaves o' the yellow and blue.

When the winds were still, and the sun rode high,
And the clear mountain stream ran wimplin' by,
When the wee birds sang, and the wilderness bee
Was floating awa', like a clud ower the sea,
This bonnie wee flower was blooming unseen-
The sweet child of summer-in its rockely green.
And when the night clud grew dark on the plain,
When the stars were out, and the moon in the wane,
When the bird and the bee had gane to rest,
And the dews of the night the green earth pressed,
This bonnie wee flower lay smiling asleep,
Like a beautiful pearl in the dark green deep.

And when autumn came, and the summer had passed,
And the wan leaves were strewn on the swirling blast,
This bonnie wee flower grew naked and bare,
And its wee leaves shrank in the frozen air;
Wild darnel and nettle sprang rank from the ground,
But the rose and white lilies were drooping around;
And this bonnie blue flower hung doon its wee head,
And the bright morning sun flung his beams on its
bed,

And the pale stars looked forth-but the wee flower
was dead.
ANDERSON.

THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.

IN Eastern lands they talk in flowers,

And they tell in a garland their loves and cares; Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers, On its leaves a mystic language bears.

The Rose is a sign of joy and love

Young blushing love in its earliest dawn; And the mildness that suits the gentle dove, From the Myrtle's snowy flower is drawn.

Innocence shines in the Lily's bell,

Pure as the heart in its native heaven;
Fame's bright star and glory's swell,
In the glossy leaf of the Bay are given.

The silent, soft, and humble heart,

In the Violet's hidden sweetness breathes; And the tender soul that cannot part,

A twine of Evergreen fondly wreathes.

The Cypress that daily shades the grave,
Is sorrow that mourns her bitter lot;
And faith that a thousand ills can brave,
Speaks in thy blue leaves, Forget-me-not.

Then gather a wreath from the garden bowers,
And tell the wish of thy heart in flowers.

PERCIVAL.

THE PRIMROSE.

THE milk-white blossoms of the thorn
Are waving o'er the pool,

Moved by the wind that breathes along
So sweetly and so cool.

The hawthorn clusters bloom above,

The primrose hides below,

And on the lonely passer-by

A modest glance doth throw!

The humble primrose' bonnie face
I meet it everywhere;

Where other flowers disdain to bloom,
It comes and nestles there.

15

Like God's own light, on every place
In glory it doth fall:

And where its dwelling-place is made,
It straightway hallows all!

Where'er the green-winged linnet sings,
The primrose bloometh lone;
And love it wins-deep love-from all
Who gaze its sweetness on.
On"field-paths narrow, and in woods,
We meet thee near and far,

Till thou becomest prized and loved,
As things familiar are!

The stars are sweet at eventide,
But cold, and far away;

The clouds are soft in summer time,
But all unstable they :

The rose is rich-but pride of place
Is far too high for me-

God's simple common things I love-
My primrose, such as thee!

I love the fireside of my home,
Because all sympathies,
The feelings fond of every day,
Around its circle rise.

And while admiring all the flowers
That summer suns can give,
Within my heart tho primrose sweet,
In lowly love doth live!-NICOLL.

FIELD FLOWERS.

YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true, Yet, wildings of Nature, I dote upon you,

For ye waft me to summers of old,

When the earth teemed around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold.

I love you for lulling me back into dreams
Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams,
And of broken glades breathing their balm,
While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote,
And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note
Made music that sweetened the calm.

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune
Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June:
Of old ruinous castles
ye tell,

Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find,
When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind,
And your blossoms were part of her spell.

Even now, what affections the violet awakes;
What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes,
Can the wild water-lily restore :

What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks,
And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks
In the vetches that tangled their shore.

Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear,

Had scathed my existence's bloom;

Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage,
With the visions of youth to revisit my age,
And I wish you to grow on my tomb.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786.

WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flower,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;

For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem:

To spare thee now is past my power,

Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet!
Wi' speckled breast,

When upward-springing, blithe, to greet
The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,

Scarce reared above the parent earth
Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield:
But thou, beneath the random bield
O' clod or stane,

Adorns the histie stibble-field,
Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet floweret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betrayed,

And guileless trust,

Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid
Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,

On life's rough ocean luckless starred:
Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, T And whelm him o'er!