ROUGH-STALKED FEATHER-MOSS.*

OH! lovely plant, what care, what power,
In thy fair structure are display'd,

By Him who rear'd thee to this bour,
Within the forest's lonely shade.

Thy tender stalks and fibres fine,

Here find a shelter from the storm;
Perhaps no human eye but mine,
E'er gazed upon thy lovely form.

He that form'd thee, little plant,

And bade thee flourish in this place, Who sees and knows my every want, Can still support me with his grace.

Composed by Alexander Leatham, a blind boy, on hearing the anecdote of Mungo Park deriving consolation, under severe hardships, in the wilds of Africa, from the sight of a small moss.

He that enlarges his curiosity after the works of Nature, multiplies the inlets to happiness; and therefore I call upon the younger part of my readers to make use, at once, of the spring of the year, and the spring of life, to acquire, while their minds may yet be impressed with new images, a love of innocent pleasures, and an ardour for useful knowledge; and to remember that a blighted spring makes a barren year, and that the vernal flowers, however beautiful and gay, are only intended by Nature as preparatives to autumnal fruits.

DR. JOHNSON.

CATCH then, O! catch the transient hour,
Improve each moment as it flies :

Life's a short summer-man a flower;
He dies-alas! how soon he dies!

DR. JOHNSON.

PRIMROSE.

In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene thou openest to the nipping gale,
Unnoticed and alone,

Thy tender elegance.

So virtue blooms;-brought forth amid the storms Of chill adversity, in some lone walk

Of life, she rears her head,

Obscure and unobserved;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows, Chastens her spotless purity of breast,

And hardens her to bear

Serene the ills of life.

H. K. WHITE.

WHEN Time's dark winter shall be o'er,
His storms and tempests laid,
Like me, you'll rise a fragrant flower,

But not like me, to fade.

BISHOP HORNE.

THE scenes of Nature contribute powerfully to inspire that serenity which heightens their beauties, and is necessary to our full enjoyment of them. By a secret sympathy, the soul catches the harmony which she contemplates, and the frame within assimilates itself with that without. . . But the taste for natural beauty is subservient to higher powers than these; it elevates it to the admiration and love of that Being who is the Author of all that is fair, sublime, and good in the creation.

PERCIVAL.

THERE'S not a leaf within the bower;
There's not a bird upon the tree;
There's not a dewdrop on the flower;

But bears the impress, Lord! of Thee.

MRS. OPIE.

THE God of nature and of grace,

In all His works appears;

His goodness through the earth we trace,

His grandeur in the spheres.

J. MONTGOMERY.

EARLY FIELD SCORPION-GRASS.

WHEN the mornin sun raise frae its eastern ha',
This bonny wee flower was the earliest o' a,
To open its buds sealed up in the dew,

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

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And when the nicht clud grew dark o'er the plain, When the stars were out, and the moon on the

wane,

When the bird and the bee were gane to rest, And the dews o' the nicht the green earth prest, The bonny wee flower lay smiling asleep,

Like a beautifu' pearl in the dark, green leaf.

ANON.

AND as within your hand it glows,
Oh, mark the power Divine,

Which gave the feeblest plant that grows,

Like heaven's own blue to shine.

J. R.