Herrick, in his Hesperides, says that this fragrant plant, Rosmarinus officinalis,

Grows for two ends, it matters not at all,

Be 't for my bridal, or my burial.

Shakspeare intimates, that it is esteemed for strengthening the memory, and for that purpose Ophelia presents it to Laertes;

There's rosemary, that's for remembrance.-Hamlet, iv, 6.

He also mentions its use at funerals.-Romeo, iv, 5.

THE ELEPHANT.

CALM amid scenes of havock, in his own
Huge strength impregnable, the Elephant
Offendeth none, but leads a quiet life
Among his own cotemporary trees,
Till nature lays him gently down to rest
Beneath the palm, which he was wont to make
His prop in slumber; there his relics lay
Longer than life itself had dwelt within them.
Bees in the ample hollow of his skull
Pile their wax citadels, and store their honey
Thence sally forth to forage through the fields,
And swarm in emigrating legions thence:
There, little burrowing animals throw up
Hillocks beneath the overarching ribs ;
While birds, within the spinal labyrinth
Contrive their nests :-So wandering Arabs pitch
Their tents amid Palmyra's palaces;

So Greek and Roman peasants build their huts
Beneath the shadows of the Parthenon,

Or on the ruins of the Capitol.

MONTGOMERY.

THE DAISY.

NOT worlds on worlds, in phalanx deep,
Need we to prove a God is here;
The Daisy, fresh from nature's sleep,
Tells of His hand in lines as clear.

For who but HE who arch'd the skies,
And pours the day-spring's living flood,
Wondrous alike in all HE tries,

Could raise the Daisy's purple bud,

Mould its green cup, its wiry stem,
Its fringed border nicely spin,
And cut the gold-embossed gem
That, set in silver, gleams within,

And fling it unrestrain❜d and free,
O'er hill and dale, and desert sod,
That man, where'er he walks, may see
In every step the stamp of GOD?

DR. J. M. GOOD.

The Field-Daisy, insignificant as it apparently is, exhibits on examination, a world of wonders. Scores of minute blossoms compose its disk and border, each distinct, each useful, each delicately beautiful. The florets of the centre, are yellow or orange-coloured, while those of the ray are snow-white, tinged underneath with crimson. The following remark of Gedner is particularly applicable to this interesting little flower. "We ought not to overlook the minutest objects, but to examine them with a glass, for we shall then perceive how much art the Creator has bestowed upon them."

Woe to the man, whose wit disclaims its use,
Glittering in vain, or only to seduce,
Who studies Nature, with a wanton eye,
Admires the work, but slips the lesson by.

COWPER.

THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.

IN Eastern lands they talk in flowers,

And they tell in a garland their loves and cares; Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers, On its leaves a mystic language bears.

The Rose is a sign of Joy and Love,

Young blushing love in its earlier dawn;
And the Mildness that suits the gentle dove,
From the Myrtle's snowy flower is drawn.
Innocence shines in the Lily's bell,

Pure as the heart in its native heaven;
Fame's bright star and Glory's swell,
By the glossy leaf of the Bay are given.

The silent, soft, and humble heart

In the Violet's hidden sweetness breathes; And the tender soul that cannot part,

A twine of Evergreen fondly wreathes. The Cypress that daily shades the grave,

Is sorrow that mourns her bitter lot; And faith that a thousand ills can brave,

Speaks in thy blue leaves-Forget-me-not.

Then gather a wreath from the garden bowers
And tell the wish of thy heart in flowers.

J. G. PERCIVAL.

THE GLOW-WORM.

WHEN Evening closes Nature's eye,
The Glow-worm lights her little spark,

To captivate her favourite fly,

And tempt the rover through the dark.

L

Conducted by a sweeter star,

Than all that decks the fields above,
He fondly hastens from afar

To soothe her solitude with love.

Thus in this wilderness of tears
Amid the world's perplexing gloom,
The transient torch of Hymen cheers
The pilgrim journeying to the tomb.
Unhappy he, whose hopeless eye

Turns to the light of love in vain ;
Whose Cynosure* is in the sky,

He, on the dark and lonely main.

MONTGOMERY.

An old writer has well observed, "Dost thou not know, that a perfect friend should be like the glaze-worm, which shineth most bright in the darke ?"

The Star, in the constellation of Ursa Minor, near the North Pole, by which sailors in ancient times steered. Milton, in his Comus, calls it the Tyrian Cynosure.

THE BEAUTIES IN NATURE.

IN JUNE.

AWHILE I bask'd amid the hay;

Suck'd from the clover-flowers the honey: trac'd
The shining-coated insects in the grass

Threading their beautiful labyrinth, or the bee

Eagerly rifling the fallen flowers, to catch
Their fragrance ere the hot sun drink it up ;
Listen'd the little chorus of the gnats,

And flies innumerous wheeling round and round
In the warm sunbeam. Now, stretch'd at length,
I watch'd the many-colour'd birds that sail'd
With various flight in the ethereal air;

The lark with quivering wing mounting aloft

Till my strain'd eye had lost him, though even then

His ceaseless song came down, mellow'd and fine,
And fainter, and yet fainter, till it died ;

The swallow darting to and fro; the hawk,
Round and yet round, with slow and wary course
Gliding, or hanging like a cloudy speck,-
Or sinking slow with gently tremulous wing,-
Or like an arrow rapidly darting down.
The linnet, and the red-breast, and the thrush,
The gold-finch, and the little wren,-all birds
That sing and frolic in the sun were there.
I mark'd their differing motions; listen'd oft
To their dissimilar songs, all at once,
Yet without discord. Sometimes far above
The heron flew with long, slow-flapping wings;
Sometimes the cooing wood-pigeon came near;
The crow, and sea-gull with his plaintive cry.
ATHERSTONE.

A JUNE DAY.

WHO has not dream'd a world of bliss,
On a bright sunny noon like this,

Couch'd by his native brook's green maze,

With comrade of his boyish days?
While all around them seem'd to be

Just as in joyous infancy.

Who has not lov'd, at such an hour,
Upon that heath, in birchen bower,
Lull'd in the poet's dreamy mood,
Its wild and sunny solitude?
While o'er the waste of purple ling
You mark'd a sultry glimmering;
Silence herself there seems to sleep,
Wrapp'd in a slumber long and deep,
Where slowly stray those lonely sheep
Through the tall foxglove's crimson bloom,
And gleaming of the scatter'd broom.