Rousseau and the Wild Flower.

It is related of Rousseau, that when he returned to the home of his youth, after years of absence, he suddenly came on a bed of wild flowers blooming in all the beauty and freshness he had remembered them in his childhood, and that the contrast they presented to his withered hopes and wasted life moved him to tears.

W

HEN known to fame, but not to peace,
Alone, unfriended, worn with care,
The enthusiast bade his wanderings cease,
And breath'd once more his native air,

And hail'd again the tranquil scene

Where once he roved with heart serene.

The plant that bloomed along the shore
When there in happier hours he stray'd,
Still flourish'd gaily as before,

In all its azure charms array'd;
There still it shone, in honest pride,
While all his flowers of joy had died.

It seem'd to say, "Hadst thou, like me,

Contented bloom'd within the bed

That Nature's hand had formed for thee
When first her dews were on thee shed,
Then had thy blossoms never known

The blasts that o'er their buds have blown."

It seemed to say,

"The loveliest flower

That keeps unmoved its native sphere,
May brave the season's changeful power

And live through many a stormy year;
For mercy guides the fiercest gale
And halcyon skies again prevail."

Happy are those alone who aim
In duty's quiet path to shine,
And, careless of the meed of fame,
Unseen their fairest garlands twine;
Whilst He whose eye in secret sees,
To them the meed of praise decrees,

S. M. WARING.

The Wild Broom.

Geoffroi, Duke of Anjou, father of our Henry the Second, was in the practice of wearing a sprig of planta genista in his cap; or, as an old writer quaintly expresses it, "he wore commonly a broomstalke in his bonnet; " and from this circumstance he acquired the name of Plantagenet, which he transmitted to his princely descendants, who all bore it from Henry, who has been called the first royal sprig of genista, down to Richard the Third, the last degenerate scion of the plant of Anjou.

FAR from the cultur'd haunts of men

Where nature has chanced thy seed to fling, In the turf-cover'd wild or woodland glen, I've seen thee unfold 'mid the blossoms of spring.

Time was when thy golden chain of flowers
Was link'd the warrior's brow to bind ;
When, rear'd in the shelter of royal bowers,
Thy wreath with a kingly coronal twined.

The chieftain who bore thee high on his crest,
And bequeathed to his race thy simple name,
Long ages past hath sunk to his rest,
And only lives in the voice of fame.

And, one by one, to the silent tomb
His line of princes has pass'd away;
But thou art here, with thy golden bloom,
In all the pride of thy beauty gay.

Though the feeblest thing that nature forms,— A frail and perishing flower art thou;

Yet thy race has survived a thousand storms

That have made the monarch and warrior bow.

"The storied urn" may be crumbled to dust,
And time may the marble bust deface;
But thou wilt be faithful and firm to thy trust,
The memorial flower of a princely race.

S. M. WARING.

The Dock-leaf grows beside the Nettle.

YE, the world is full of trouble!

I heard that long ago:

I heard, but little heeded then,
A truth which now I know.

But there is joy as well as sorrow,

There's balm for human woes,—
And by the cruel nettle

The healing dock-leaf grows!

There are griefs enough, I grant you,

Without us and within;

There's want, and crime, and suffering,
And death, the meed of sin;
But where the thorns are sharpest
Is found the sweetest rose,

And still beside the nettle

The healing dock-leaf grows.

With dauntless heart we'll bravely face
The ills which needs must be,

And then we'll look around for help,
Nor scorn the good we see.

'Tis when our need is sorest

The rock-pent streamlet flows,-
aye beside the nettle

And

The healing dock-leaf grows!

E

The Weeping Willow.

REEN willow! o'er whom the perilous blast

Is sweeping roughly, thou dost seem to be
The patient image of humility,

Waiting in meekness till the storm be pass'd,
Assur'd the hour of peace will come at last,—
That there will be for thee a calm bright day,
When the dark clouds are gather'd far away.
How canst thou ever sorrow's emblem be?
Rather I deem thy slight and fragile form,
In mild endurance bending gracefully,

Is like the wounded heart,-which, 'mid the storm,
Looks for the promis'd time which is to be,
In pious confidence. Oh, thou should'st wave
Thy branches o'er the lonely martyr's grave!

LANDON.

Lo, the Lilies of the Field!

O, the lilies of the field,

How their leaves instruction yield!
Hark to nature's lesson given

By the blessed birds of heaven!