Such fate to suffering worth is given,
Who long with wants and woes has striven,
By human pride or cunning driven,
To misery's brink,

Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven,
He, ruined, sink!

Even thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate,
That fate is thine-no distant date;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate,
Full on thy bloom,

Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight,
Shall be thy doom!-BURNS.

PRECEPTS OF FLOWERS.

FLOWERS of the field, how meet ye seem
Man's frailty to portray,

Blooming so fair in morning's beam,
Passing at eve away;

Teach this, and, oh! though brief your reign,
Sweet flowers ye shall not live in vain.

Go, form a monitory wreath

For youth's unthinking brow;

Go, and to busy mankind breathe
What most he fears to know;

Go, strew the path where age doth tread,
And tell him of the silent dead.

But whilst to thoughtless ones and gay,
Ye breathe these truths severe,
To those who droop in pale decay,
Have ye no words of cheer?
Oh yes! ye weave a double spell,
And death and life betoken well...

Go, then, where wrapt in fear and gloom,
Fond hearts and true are sighing,
And deck with emblematic bloom
The pillow of the dying to l

And softly speak, nor speak in vain,
Of the long sleep and broken chain

;

And say, that He who from the dust
Recalls the slumbering flower,
Will surely visit those who trust
His mercy and His power;

Will mark where sleeps their peaceful clay,
And roll, ere long, the stone away.

ZINE.

BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.

THE BRAMBLE FLOWER.

THY fruit full well the schoolboy knows,
Wild bramble of the brake!

So, put thou forth thy small white rose;
I love it for his sake.

Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow
O'er all the fragrant bowers,
Thou need'st not be ashamed to show
Thy satin-threaded flowers;

For dull the eye, the heart is dull,

That cannot feel how fair,

Amid all beauty beautiful,

Thy tender blossoms are!

How delicate thy gauzy frill!

How rich thy branchy stem!

How soft thy voice when woods are still,
And thou sing'st hymns to them;

While silent showers are falling slow,
And, 'mid the general hush,

A sweet air lifts the little bough,
Lone whispering through the bush!
The primrose to the grave is gone;
The hawthorn flower is dead;

The violet by the mossed

gray stone

Hath laid her weary head;

But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring, In all their beauteous power,

The fresh green days of life's fair spring, And boyhood's blossomy hour.

Scorned bramble of the brake! once more
Thou bidd'st me be a boy,

To gad with thee the woodlands o'er,
In freedom and in joy.-ELLIOTT.

THE LILY OF THE VALLEY.

FAIR flower, that lapt in lowly glade
Dost hide beneath the greenwood shade,
Than whom the vernal gale
None fairer wakes on banks or spray,
Our England's lily of the May,
Our lily of the vale.

Art thou that "lily of the field,”

Which, when the Saviour sought to shield
The heart from blank despair,
He showed to our mistrustful kind,
An emblem to the thoughtful mind
Of God's paternal care?

But not the less, sweet springtide's flower,
Dost thou display the Maker's power,
His skill and handiwork,

Our western valley's humbler child;
Where in green nook of woodland wild,
Thy modest blossoms lurk.

What though nor care nor art be thine,
The loom to ply, the thread to twine;
Yet, born to bloom and fade,
These, too, a lovelier robe arrays,
Than e'er in Israel's brightest days
Her wealthiest king arrayed.

Of thy twin leaves th' embowered screen
Which wraps thee in thy shroud of green;

Thy Eden-breathing smell ;*
Thy arched and purple-vested stem.
Whence pendant many a pearly gem,
Displays a milk-white bell;

Instinct with life thy fibrous root,
Which sends from earth the ascending shoot,
As rising from the dead,

And fills thy veins with verdant juice,
Charged thy fair blossoms to produce,
And berries scarlet red;

The triple cell, the twofold seed,
A ceaseless treasure-house decreed,
Whence aye thy race may grow,
As from creation they have grown,
While spring shall weave her flowery crown,
Or vernal breezes blow

Who forms thee thus with unseen hand,
Who at creation gave command,

And willed thee thus to be,
And keeps thee still in being through
Age after age revolving, who

But the Great God is He?

Omnipotent to work his will;
Wise, who contrives each part to fill
The post to each assigned;

Still provident, with sleepless care
To keep; to make the sweet and fair
For man's enjoyment kind!"

"There is no God," the senseless say:-
"Oh God, why cast'st thou us away?"
Of feeble faith and frail

The mourner breathes his anxious thought-
By thee a better lesson taught,

Sweet lily of the vale.

Yes! He who made and fosters thee,
In reason's eye perforce must be
Of majesty divine;

Nor deems she that his guardian care
Will he in man's support forbear,
Who thus provides for thine.

FIELD NATURALIST'S MAGAZINE.

THE NIGHT BLOOMING CERES.

How coyly thou the golden hours dost number! Not all thy splendour can thy love beguile; Vainly the morning zephyrs fan the slumber, And morn's rich glory woos thee for a smile. For thou dost blossom when cool shadows hover, And dews are falling through the dusky air; When with new fervour dreams the happy lover,

And winds grow solemn with the voice of prayer. While all around thee earth's bright things are sleeping,

Gay lilies fade, and droops the crimson rose, Fresh is the vigil thou alone art keeping,

And sweet the charms the virgin leaves disclose.

Thus in the soul is deep love ever hidden,

Thus noble minds will fondly shun the throne, And at their chosen time start forth unbidden, With peerless valour, or undying song.

Thus the true heart its mystic leaves concealing,
Folds them serenely from the world's broad glare,
Its treasured bliss and inmost grief revealing
To the calm starlight and the dewy air.
Blest is thy lesson, vestal of the flowers-
Not in the sunshine is our whole delight;
Some joys bloom only in life's pensive hours,
And pour their fragrance in the breeze of night.
TUCKERMAN.