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THE MORAL OF FLOWERS.

FLOWERS may be safely said to be the sole universal favourites of the human race. Stars seem sometimes too far off-too high up-and, let them shine as sweetly on us as they will, they are felt not to be looking to our world. Our sympathies are surely not separated indeed from their smiles-Heaven forbid! But our hearts need the wings of imagination to bear them through the ether; and, even from that flight, how glad are they to return to earth! The sinking is happier than the soaring; and a small still voice says, "Child of the dust! be contented yet a little while with thine humbler home!"

Forgive us, we implore you, ye bright or dim eyes of Heaven! Not from lack of love spake we so of your blissful beauty! From very gratitude to Him who sprinkled you over infinitude-not unmindful of us-are we often afraid to gaze on the night skies, in unaccepted worship. With them, in holiest moods, our hearts burn to claim kindred; but a sense profound of alienating sinfulness shuts our sight, and the gates of eternity seem closed against us. Then, to the lowliness of our spirits, is comfort given from the fair things of this our natal earth; and the solitude grows cheerful again around us, as the moonlight shews us a constellation of primroses at our feet.

And now it is once more Spring. Flowers, indeed, there are that come and go with Winter. Each season has its own; but, though all the varied year be lovely, sweetest to be ings who live to die, and die to live, is the Thought and the Feeling of the Prime. To "budding, fading, faded flowers," there belongs, in every heart, a peculiar world of emotions; yet are they all allied by one common spirit. Sadness we call it or joy-or peace-or trouble; but it springs still from one and the same source-a source welling far within the soul, and by some innate power embittering or sweetening for itself

its own waters. How they overflow the earth with beauty and happiness! or deaden it into a blank, barren as the grave!

What hands placed on our table that glorious FLOWER? We think we can guess; but as we muse on one name, three young faces, each sweeter than the other, pass smiling before us-and yet not one of them all is the right one-for the face of her, who did in truth bring the manycoloured fragrance here, is somewhat touched by time though still unfaded-and Sorrow, Time's chance companion-not surely her constant attendant — hath somewhat dimmed on her brow the lustre of that once bright black braided hair! And beside the FLOWER & book-a beautifully bound book in green and gold-flower and book harmonious and in both is there the same inspiration of the creative breath of Spring.

We fear to open it. How often is such a book like a buble! But touch it and the brightness is gone. Poetry and coloured illustrations! They, at least, are "beautiful exceedingly"-no withered spectres these as in the sad cemetery of a Hortus Siccus. Stalk, leaf, bud, blossom, all alive-and belonging to this bright and breathing world. Here are the pictures-there are the originals; and, but that no faint fine fragrance embalms the many-coloured page, the shadow might be supposed the substance-such the power of art in the hand of genius, when that genius has been inspired by love. Drawn and engraved-so the preface says-by Mr William Clark, formerly draughtsman and engraver to the London Horticultural Society; and they are worthy to meet the eye even of a Hooker.

If the poetry be such as may be expected from such a Preface-it will do; but many a lady-and we see here lucid manifestations of a female heart and hand-" wanting the accomplishment of verse," disappoints the hopes awakened by her

The Moral of Flowers; illustrated by Coloured Engravings. Longman, Rees, and Co. London: 1833.

prose, which glides on with a natural music, without effort, and as if it could not help being clear and melodious, just like a careless stream breaking into many rills, all of them flowing over verdure which they brighten, and all meeting, after no wide separation, in a silvan lake. Pity should this Lady-all unknown to us-belong to that class whose feelings and fancies, how delightful soever, fail to embody themselves "in strains that will not die." Even genius itself often lacks the skill to give immortal expression to divine conceptions; as if nature alone were insufficient to kindle into fresh life the Promethean fire, and science had to aid the power, in its productive energy, that comes from heaven.

Poetry there is in her prose-and even if her verses should be failures -her prose proves her to be a poetess. But as our eyes glide over the stanzas, they see a glimmer of lights and shadows, such as, when lying in a forest-glade, we see, nor know whether or not we be dreaming, coming and going through openings among trees, till the shadows disappear, and the lights settle down into a stationary spot of lustre, through which, invested with new beauty, seem to approach nearer to our gaze the grass and the flowers.

The preface has done better than keep the word of promise to our ear -for it made no promise-but meekly gave us hopes, by its pure expression of religious sentiments, which every subsequent page has more than fulfilled-for the truth is, that the volume is full of exquisite poetry-and that there is not a single stanza in it all without either a thought, a feeling, or an image coloured by that dewy light which comes breathing fresh and fair from the font that flows but for the chosen children of sensibility and genius.

Dearest! read aloud with a low voice-second paragraph of the Preface. "Flowers are a delight to every one, to some, perhaps, merely for their beauty and fragrance-to others, independently of these acknowledged charms, for the varied plea surable associations and thoughts they suggest and foremost of these is the assurance they afford of the exuberant goodness of God." "The provision which is made of a variety

of objects not necessary to life, and ministering only to our pleasures, shews," says an eloquent and learned author, "a farther design than that of giving existence." And who does not feel this when he looks on the Hedgerow and the Mead,

"Full of fresh verdure and unnumbered flowers,

The negligence of nature." Nor is this the only lesson they impart; they remind us also of the su perintending Providence of the Almighty. After contemplating the more stupendous features of creation, "the heavens, the work of His fingers, the moon and the stars, which He has ordained," till overwhelmed with a sense of littleness, we exclaim, almost with feelings of despondency, "Lord, what is man that thou art mindful of him, and the son of man that thou visitest him!" Has not the sight of a flower, so carefully provided for, so exquisitely wrought, and so lavishly endowed with fragrance, recalled the mind to its proper tone, and given emphasis to the question, "Are ye not much better than they?"

A wise little homily that wins the reader's heart. Her object, the Lady tells us, which it has been her aim to accomplish, is to pursue such a train of reflection, or draw such a moral from each flower that is introduced, as its appearance, habits, or properties might be supposed to suggest. The first piece, however, is intended as introductory; and the specimens which are illustrated in the plate, are only to be considered as the representatives of field-flowers in general. Especial favourites one and all must have among flowersafter the Lily, the Rose, and the Violet-for surely these three surpass all others; but during a continued perusal of this delightful volume from beginning to end, we have often felt sorry and ashamed of our favourit. ism, as if it were a sin. Each flower, as it comes before us, arrayed in a religious light, seems lovely as the last, and we regard all the families of the field with one affection. Who would exclude the meanest of them all from his love? Meanest! Coleridge says, "in nature there is nothing melancholy," and we know "the old man eloquent," will re

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Go, then, where wrapt in fear and gloom
Fond hearts and true are sighing,
And deck with emblematic bloom

The pillow of the dying;
And softly speak, nor speak in vain,
Of your 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.

We blame not the poets who have breathed into flowers the breath of earthly passion; but why have not poets loved more to make them holier emblems-to steep bud, leaf, cup, and blossom, in "the beauty still more beauteous," "the consecration of the dream" that is visited by celestial light? Some have done so-but not the many; while others, as if ashamed of life's most solemn thoughts, have played and dallied with these happy purities, as if they

were images merely of our lighter fancies, and fit, before they faded, but to adorn "the tangles of Neæra's hair." Yet are there often touches of natural religion, in a few words, from the lips of the great poets, mentioning, with some soul-felt epithet, the names of flowers appropriately placed on shrine, altar, or tomb. The names themselves, indeed, always truly, and often piously, express their characters. In these is involved an idea or an emotion, and poetry evolves the sad or gay humanities, till they bedim or brighten the ground round their stalks with showers of tender or gladsome leaves all of light. Thus the Pansy-the flower of many names. To Shakspeare-as Wordsworth has pathetically said of himself-it gave thoughts that did often lie too deep for tears"-else had he not made poor Ophelia say— "there is pansies,

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That's for thought."

Pansy freaked with jet," is also one
of the flowers which Milton culls for
the bier of Lycidas. Yet, in an-
other mood, sweet Willy immortali-
zed it by the name of "Love in Idle-
ness," in his Midsummer Night's
Dream. It was held sacred to St
Valentine-and he is the saint of the
soft-billed birds, and not of the vul-
tures. "Heart-Ease" is a familiar
household word-and we know not
-we wish we did-and certainly
ought to have known-who says-
"And thou, so rich in gentle names, ap-
pealing

To hearts that own our nature's common
lot;
Thou, styled by sportive Fancy's better
feelings,

'A thought,' the Heart-ease."

Perhaps 'tis in the Lyrical Ballads— yet we thought no leaf there could hold a dewdrop to us unknown. With all these thoughts and feelings associated with it and represented by it, it required the sweet assurance of the consciousness of a loving heart to embolden this lady to sing the praises of a flower, dear alike to humblest and highest spirits.

THE HEART-EASE, OR PANSY VIOLET.
This morn a fairy bower I pass'd,
Where, sheltered from the northern blast,
Grew many a garden gem;

1834.]

More lovely sure not Eden graced,
Ere yet the primal curse had traced
Ruin and blight on all, and placed
Thorns on the rose's stem.

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Onward I sped in musing mood,
Till near my path, now wild and rude,
A flow'ret met my view;
Unlike to those I left, it chose
A lowly bed, "yet blithe as rose
That in the king's own garden grows,"
It sipt the morning dew.

I paused, the sky became o'ercast,
And the chill rain fell thick and fast-
How fared that blossom now?
With head on its light stem inclin'd,
Smiling it met both rain and wind,
As if to teach me it design'd

'Neath sorrow's storm to bow.

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Then let the storm beat o'er my head,
If, while the rugged path I tread,
That ease of heart" be mine.
Which, when the darkling cloud doth
rise,

Not with the passing sunbeam dies,
But all unchanged by frowning skies,
Throughout the storm doth shine.

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American Book of Flowers and Sen timents." The collection and selection has been made-and tastefully-by Mrs S. J. Hale, a lady who is an honour to Boston. We know not who may be the writer of the following lines to a Night-blowing Cereus"-we hope the fair Editress herself-but we cannot give them better praise than by gracing our pages with them, among pearls as pure as themselves-here are two of the first water in the same setting -which do you love best, the American or the English?

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Once flowering, wilt thou never more
Give thy pale beauty back?
O, canst thou not thy fragrance pour
Upon the sunbeam's track?

Thou flower of summer's starlit night,
When whispering farewell,
Bear'st thou a hope, from this dim world,
Mid brighter things to dwell?

Thou hast unseal'd my thoughts' ́deep
fount,

My hope as thine shall be,
And my heart's incense I will breathe
To Heaven, bright flower, with thee.

EVENING PRIMROSE.

Aye! 'tis a pleasant coincidence.
Here is a small packet sent us by one
of our American friends-and we are
happy to think we have many-from
across the Atlantic-and what should
it contain, among other welcome
volumes, but in binding yellow as a Incline their dew-besprinkled head
crocus-" Flora's Interpreter, or the

"The sun his latest ray has shed,
The wild bird to its nest has sped,
And buds, which to the day-beam spread
Their brightest glow,

In slumber now.

"Then why art thou lone vigils keeping,
Pale flower, when all beside are sleeping?,
Are not the same soft zephyrs sweeping
Each slender stem,

And the same opiate dewdrops steeping
Both thee and them? "

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editress. Are they really American? There is a something about_them— may we say it without offence a tone of fine simplicity tempering their earnestness-that almost makes us doubt their being so—and they bring, though dim, yet not unfamiliar recollections to our mind, as if we had heard them before, somewhere or other, years ago. Yet we that the Cereus they celebrate was daresay that we are mistaken, and a Boston flower. Certain we are that the Evening Primrose, so delightfully sung by our fair country. woman, sprang from English soilwe know not whether in gardenwaste ground-or on the dreary sands of the Lancashire coast, where it grows wild in profusion. Equally beautiful are her lines on the "Darkflowered Stock Gilliflower." Melancholy Gilliflower it is often called, because of the sombre hue of its blossoms, and their exhaling fra grance only in the night. Many of the double varieties are very lovely, and give out their rich odours so freely in the daytime, as fully to deserve the notice of Thomson, who, in his enumeration of flowers, passes his encomium on the whole tribe"And lavish stock, which scents the garden round."

"There seems," adds the lady, "a peculiar fragrancy in the scent of night-blowing flowers; it is something akin to night-music."

THE DARK-FLOWERED STOCK-GILLIFLOWER.

"Long hath the lily closed her silver bells,
And the rose droop'd 'neath evening's dewy spells;
But thou, still sleepless, to the gale dost spread
Sweets which might seem from fairy's censer shed.
What holds thee waking?-not the guilt, or woes,
That oft from human bosoms scare repose.

"Let care and sorrow watch the night-hours through;
Let misers wake to count their hoards anew;

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But flowers, sweet flowers, which neither spin nor toil,'
Whose little lives are one perpetual smile,

Children of sunshine-ye, with day's last gleam,

Should sink to sleep till roused by morning's beam."

"The sun has cheer'd me through the livelong day,
The breeze has fann'd me in its gentle play,
The dews have fed me, and the summer shower
Temper'd the fervour of the noontide hour;
Then is't not meet, ere yet I close my eye,
That I should yield to Heaven a fragrant sigh?

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