And thus the true of heart remain,
Without one alter'd look or tone;
So kind, we almost bless the pain

That makes us know such friends our own.

The Hellebore, or Christmas Rose, Helleborus niger, gratefully presents its flowers to our notice early in January. At their first opening they are white; afterwards they become pink, and finally green. The tubular nectaries ranged round the germen are curious, and merit the attention of the physiologist.

THE WOODRUFF.

AMID a thousand brighter flowers,

We scarcely note thy tender bloom,

When Summer's heat, and Spring-time's showers
Have call'd thee from thy Winter-tomb.

But should we find thee wither'd, 'reft
E'en of the humble charms thou hast,
We feel a fragrant sweetness left—
A sweetness, that no ills can blast.

Thus modest worth remains unknown,
While fairer beauty's flatter'd name,
On every zephyr's breath is blown,
A candidate for human fame.

Let sorrow come-mere beauty now
Hath lost its adventitious power;
While chill'd, or bruis'd, or broken, thou

Art fragrant in that trying hour.

The Woodruff, Asperula odorata, adorns with its beautiful snowy white flowers our shaded banks and copses during the months of May and June. The leaves surround the stem, standing out like the rowels of a spur, from which circumstance it has sometimes been called the Woodrowel. The ancient method of spelling the name of this plant, Woodderowffe, often affords great amusement to children at school. The whole plant, when withered, has a most delightful fragrance, not unlike that of the Vernal-grass, Anthoxanthum odoratum, and on this account is mixed with rose-leaves, lavender, &c., for scent-jars.

D D

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear;

Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the wither'd leaves lie

dead:

They rustle in the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread :

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood

In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?

Alas! they all are in their graves: the gentle race of flowers Are resting in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of

ours:

The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November rain

Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long ago,

And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the Summer glow;

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in Autumn beauty

stood,

Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the

plague on men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.

And now comes the calm mild day, as still such days will

come,

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their Winter home,

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the

trees are still,

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,

The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late they bore,

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no

more.

And when I think of one, who in her youthful beauty died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side; In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast her leaf,

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like that young friend of

ours,

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers! W. C. BRYANT.

ON HAPPINESS.

TRUE Happiness is not the growth of earth;
The toil is fruitless if you seek it there;

'Tis an exotic, of celestial birth,

And never blooms but in celestial air.

Sweet plant of Paradise, its seeds are sown
In here and there a breast of heavenly mould;
It rises fair, and buds; but ne'er is known
To blossom well, the climate is so cold.

Oh! may my erring wishes learn to rise

Beyond the transient bliss that earth bestows!
Stretch forth, my wings, to gain my native skies;
There Happiness in full perfection grows.

Christian Guardian, 1816.

MINE be a cot beside the hill:

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall, shall linger near.

The swallow oft, beneath my thatch, Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower, that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing,
In russet gown and apron blue.

The village church, among the trees,
Where first our marriage-vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to Heaven.

ROGERS.

A LEGEND OF THE HIVE.

BEHOLD those winged images!
Bound for their evening bowers:
They are the nation of the bees,

Born from the breath of flowers:
Strange people they! a mystic race,
In life and food and dwelling-place!

They first were seen on earth, 'tis said,
When the rose breathes in spring,
Men thought her blushing bosom shed
The children of the wing:

But lo! their host went down the wind,
Fill'd with the thoughts of God's own mind!

They built them houses, made with hands,
And there, alone, they dwell,

No man to this day understands

The mystery of their cell: Your mighty sages cannot see The deep foundations of the bee!