While modest Clematis appeared as a bride,

And her husband, the Lilac, ne'er moved from her side. Though the belles giggled loudly, and said, “'Twas a shame For a young married chit such attention to claim;

They never attended a rout in their life,

Where a city-bred man ever spoke to his wife."

Miss Peony came in quite late, in a heat,

With the Ice-Plant new spangled from forehead to feet;
Lobelia, attired like a queen in her pride,

And the Dahlias, with trimmings new furnished and dyed,
And the Blue-bells and Hare-bells, in simple array,
With all their Scotch cousins from highland and brae.
Ragged Robins and Marigolds clustered together,
And gossipped of scandal, of news, and the weather;
What dresses were worn at the wedding so fine,
Of sharp Master Thistle and sweet Columbine;
Of the loves of Sweet William and Lily the prude,
Till the clamour of Babel again seemed renewed.
In a snug little nook sat the Jessamine pale,
And that pure fragrant Lily, the gem of the vale;
The meek Mountain-Daisy, with delicate crest,
And the Violet, whose eye told the heaven in her breast;
And allured to their group were the wise ones, who bowed
To that virtue which seeks not the praise of the crowd;
But the proud Crown Imperial, who wept in her heart,
That their modesty gained of such homage a part,
Looked haughtily down on their innocent mien,
And spread out her gown that they might not be seen.
The bright Lady-Slippers and Sweet-Briers agreed
With their slim cousin Aspens a measure to lead;
And sweet 'twas to see their bright footsteps advance,
Like the wing of the breeze through the maze of the dance.
But the Monk's-hood scowled dark, and, in utterance low,
Declared ""Twas high time for good Christians to go;"
So folding the cowl round his cynical head,
He took from the sideboard a bumper, and fled.
A song was desired, but each musical flower
Had taken a cold, and 'twas out of her power?"
Till sufficiently urged, they broke forth in a strain
Of quavers and trills that astonished the train.
Mimosa sat trembling, and said, with a sigh,
" "Twas so fine, she was ready with rapture to die."
And Cactus, the grammar-school tutor, declared,
"It might be with the gamut of Orpheus compared;"
Then moved himself round in a comical way,
To show how the trees once had frisked at the lay.

Yet Nightshade, the metaphysician, complained,
That the nerves of his ear were excessively pained:
"'Twas but seldom he crept from the college," he said,
"And he wished himself safe in his study or bed."
There were pictures, whose splendour illumined the place,
Which Flora had finished with exquisite grace;
She had dipped her free pencil in Nature's pure dyes,
And Aurora retouched with fresh purple the skies.
So the grave connoisseurs hasted near them to draw,
Their knowledge to show, by detecting a flaw.

The Carnation her eye-glass drew forth from her waist,
And pronounced they were "not in good keeping or taste;"
While prim Fleur-de-lis, in her robe of French silk,
And magnificent Calla, with mantle like milk,

Of the Louvre recited a wonderful tale,

And said, "Guido's rich tints made dame Nature turn pale." The Snow-drop assented, and ventured to add,

His opinion, that "all Nature's colouring was bad;

He had thought so, e'er since a few days he had spent
To study the paintings of Rome, as he went

To visit his uncle Gentiana, who chose

His abode on the Alps, 'mid a palace of snows;
But he took on Mont Blanc such a terrible chill,
That ever since that he had been pallid and ill."
Half withered Miss Hackmatack bought a new glass,
And thought with her nieces, the Spruces, to pass.
But bachelor Holly, who spied her out late,
Destroyed all her plans by a hint at her date.

So she pursed up her mouth, and said tartly, with scorn,
"She could not remember before she was born."
Old Jonquil, the crooked-back beau, had been told
That a tax would be laid upon bachelor's gold;
So he bought a new coat, and determined to try
The long disused armour of Cupid so sly,
Sought for half-opened buds in their infantine years,
And ogled them all, till they blushed to their ears.
Philosopher Sage on a sofa was prosing,

With dull Doctor Chamomile quietly dozing,
Though the Laurel descanted, with eloquent breath,
Of heroes and battles, of victory and death;
Farmer Sunflower was near, and decidedly spake
Of" the poultry he fed, and the oil he might make;"
For the true-hearted soul deemed a weather-stained face,
And a toil-hardened hand, were no marks of disgrace.
Then he beckoned his nieces to rise from their seat,
The plump Dandelion and Cowslip so neat,

And bade them to "put on their cloaks and away,
For the cocks crowed so loud, 'twas the break o' the day."
-'Twas indeed very late, and the coaches were brought,
For the grave matron flowers of their nurseries thought;
The lustre was dimmed of each drapery rare,

And the lucid young brows looked beclouded with care;
All save the bright Cereus, that belle so divine,

Who joyed through the curtains of midnight to shine.
Now they curtseyed and bowed as they moved to the door,
But the Poppy snored loud e'er the parting was o'er,
For Night her last candle was snuffing away,

And Flora grew tired, though she begged them to stay;
Exclaimed," All the watches and clocks were too fast,
And old Time ran in spite, lest her pleasures should last."
But when the last guest went, with daughter and wife,
She vowed she "never was so glad in her life;"
Called out to her maids, who with weariness wept,
To" wash up the glasses and cups ere they slept;"
For "Aurora," she said, "with her broad staring eye,
Would be pleased in the house some disorder to spy;"
Then sipped some pure honey-dew, fresh from the lawn,
And with Zephyrus hasted to sleep until dawn.

LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

Or

THE CALENDAR OF FLORA.

FAIR rising from her icy couch,
Wan herald of the floral year,

The snow-drop marks the spring's approach,
Ere yet the primrose groups appear,
peers the arum' from its spotted veil,

Or odorous violets scent the cold capricious gale.

Then, thickly strewn in woodland bowers,
Anemonies their stars unfold:

Then spring the sorrel's veined flowers,
And, rich in vegetable gold,
From calyx pale the freckled cowslips born,
Receive in jasper cups the fragrant dews of morn.

Lo! the green thorn her silver buds
Expands to Maia's genial beam;

Hottonia blushes on the floods,

1 Cuckoo-pint.

And, where the slowly-trickling stream

2 Oxalis, or wood-sorrel.

3 The water-violet.

'Mid grass and spiry rushes stealing glides,
Her lovely fringed flowers fair menyanthes* hides.

In the lone copse, or shadowy dale,
Wild clustered knots of hare-bells grow;
And droops the lily of the vale

O'er vinca's matted leaves below.

The orchis race with varied beauty charm,
And mock the exploring bee, or fly's aërial form.

Wound o'er the hedge-row's oaken boughs,
The wood-bine's tassels float in air,
And blushing, the uncultured rose

Hangs high her beauteous blossoms there; Her fillets there the purple nightshade weaves, And pale brionia7 winds her broad and scalloped leaves.

To later summer's fragrant breath

Clematis' feathery garlands dance;
The hollow foxglove nods beneath;

While the tall mullein's yellow lance
(Dear to the mealy moth of evening) towers;

And the weak galium10 weaves its myriad fairy flowers.

Sheltering the coot's or wild duck's nest,
And where the timid halcyon hides,
The willow-herb, in crimson dressed,
Waves with arundo" o'er the tides;

And there the bright nymphæa1 loves to lave,
Or spreads her golden orbs13 along the dimpling wave.

And thou, by pain and sorrow blessed,
Papaver! that an opiate dew
Conceal'st beneath thy scarlet vest,

Contrasting with cyanus blue,

Autumnal months behold thy gauzy leaves

Bend in the rustling gale amid the tawny sheaves.

From the first bud whose venturous head
The winter's lingering tempest braves,
To those which, 'midst the foliage dead,
Shrink latest to their annual graves:

All are for use, for health, for pleasure given;

All speak, in various ways, the bounteous hand of Heaven. CHARLOTTE SMITH.

TO THE RIVER THAMES.

OLD Thames!-thou babbler!-noisy tyrant! proud
Thou art, and mighty in thy devious course!
Methinks thou need's not be so rudely loud-
Look to the tiny dribbling of thy source!
But thou art like the wild and noisy crowd,
Vain and tumultuous-rushing on with force,
Regardless of the mud from which, forlorn,
A puny thing, thy rivership was born!

Not that we deem an humble birth a crime

Blest are the poor, the humble, and the meekBut thou goest wallowing on, o'er weed and slime, Swelling, all pompous, arrogant, and weak, Thou only roar'st a short and fitful time :

What doth thy long, yet futile history speak? Thy waters still to flow-those flowed before, Have been, or will be, swallowed at the Nore! Yet, let the Muse no more contemn thy waters, On whose rich bank in days of old were seen Struggles for empire, and the strife of slaughters,

That dyed with tyrant's blood the valleys green; And there have dwelt, and dwell thy peerless daughters Of grace and beauty-while thou flow'st, the Queen Of Albion's Rivers-by the glorious city,

Which holds the fair, the rich, the gay, the witty.

Yes! thou art London's boast-sufficient praise
To give a wild and rambling stream, like thee-
That huge metropolis!-her vitals raise

A race of heroes, bold of heart and free.
What wondrous men are in her crowded ways,
Rare imps of science and philosophy!
There are heads, too, which never dare aspire,
With all their brains, to-set the Thames on fire.