HARE BELL.

WITH drooping bells of clearest blue
Thou didst attract my childish view,
Almost resembling

The azure butterflies that flew

Where on the heath thy blossoms grew,
So lightly trembling.

But most I love thine azure braid,
When softer flowers are most decay'd,
And thou appearest,

Stealing beneath the hedgerow shade,

Like joys that linger as they fade,
Whose last are dearest.

Beneath autumnal breezes bleak

So faintly fair, so sadly meek,
I've seen thee bending,

Pale as the pale blue veins that streak
Consumption's thin transparent cheek,
With death hues blending.

REV. C. TAYLER.

THE objects of ambition, a breath may destroy; but the pleasures of the Naturalist are ever pure and bright as the source from which they emanate, and incapable of decay. His are unalloyed pleasures, where no cares intrude, which no revolution can endanger, and no reverse of fortune can destroy.

E. LEES.

THE rage of Nations, and the crush of States,
Move not the man, who from the World escapes
In still retreats, and flowery solitudes;
To Nature's voice attends, from month to month,
And day to day, through the revolving year.

THOMPSON.

BLUNT SHIELD FERN.

THE green palmy fern, which the softest and mildest

Of summer's light breezes could ruffle.

BARTON.

WHAT though no gaudy hue attract the eye,
Endow'd with form of justest symmetry,
The breeze of spring no lovelier thing hath
fann'd,

Than the light foliage of the feathery band
Of ferns; who crowd the heath, or deep recess
Of many a grove and tangled wilderness,
With their green vases;* formed to vie with
those

Which Grecian art, fond and exulting, chose
To crown the graceful pillar-and to me,
Far-famed Acanthus, not less fair than thee,
(Such as I know thee, sculptured with nice hand,)
Rise the slight fern-plants of my native land.

*The Fern frequently assumes in its early growth

the most perfect and elegant vase-like form.

CONCLUDING LINES.

THE dead leaves strew the forest walk,
And wither'd are the pale wild flowers;
The frost hangs blackening on the stalk,
The dewdrops fall in frozen showers.
Gone are the spring's green sprouting bowers
Gone summer's rich and mantling vines;
And autumn, with her yellow hours,

On hill and plain no longer shines.

I'll gaze upon the cold, north light,
And mark where all its glories shine,
See-that it all is fair and bright,
Feel that it all is cold and gone!

BRAINARD.

BUT yon are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have

Their end, though ne'er so brave.
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you awhile, they glide

Into the grave.

HERRICK.