ROSEMARY.... Remembrance.

The Rosemary is so often mentioned by our early writers, both in prose, poetry, and our oldest dramas, that a long article, possessing great interest to such as love old-fashioned things, might be written upon it. The Rosemary was used both at their feasts and their funerals, the christening-cup was stirred with it, and it was worn at their marriage ceremonies. Shakspeare has chosen it for the emblem of Remembrance, and who would attempt to change the meaning of a flower which his genius has hallowed, or disturb a leaf over which he has breathed his holy "superstition ?"—in memory of him we use the latter word in all reverence. A few years ago it was customary, in many parts of England, to plant slips of Rosemary over the dead; nor has the practice yet fallen altogether into disuserural cemeteries will revive these ancient customs. Shakspeare chose the Rosemary as the emblem of affectionate remembrance, for its flowering in winter,— a very poetic and touching allusion. The sweet maniac, Ophelia, says,

There's Rosemary, "That for remembrance,
pray you love, remember."

I

I loved thee, and must love thee still,

In memory of the past

Amid whate'er of earthly ill

My future lot is cast!

E'er in my boyhood's sunny prime,
When brightly from the urn of Time
Life's golden moments fell,

Thou wert a peri to my eyes,

Sent from Love's own sweet paradise,
In my young heart to dwell.

New York Mirror.

Remember me, I pray; but not

In Flora's gay and blooming hour,
When every brake hath found its note,
And sunshine smiles in every flower;

But when the falling leaf is sere,
And withers sadly from the tree,
And o'er the ruins of the year

Cold autumn weeps,—remember me.

Edward Everett.

The north wind howls; but, sheltered safe, and warm,
Howl as it may, we feel secure from danger:
The fire burns blue, "betokening a storm"—

A brand falls down, "precursor of a stranger."
My thoughtful mind runs o'er the track of years,
When, tongs in hand, at our old hearth I sat,
And poked the embers, till my mother's fears
Broke in upon the usual social chat,

"You'll fire the chimney, son!" The sparks would fly, Like little lumps of lightning up the flue,

And snap and crackle as they soared on high,

As if they felt some pleasure in it too!

That fire is out that hearth is cold—and they

Who felt its pleasant warmth have mostly passed away.

MacKellar.

ANEMONE.... Forsaken.

Anemone was a nymph, beloved by Zephyr. Flora, jealous of her, banished her from her court, and transformed her into a flower, that blows before the return of spring. Zephyr has abandoned this unhappy beauty to the rude caresses of Boreas, who, unable to gain her love, harshly shakes her, half opens her blossoms, and causes her immediately to fade. An Anemone, with these words, Brevis est usus—"Her reign is short"—is touchingly expressive of the transitory nature of beauty.

In spring the green woods of merry England are covered with the flowers of the Anemone. Turn the eye whichever way you will, there it greets you like "a pleasant thought;" it forms a bed of flowers around the foot of the mighty oak, and below the tangling brambles, which you may peep between, but cannot pass,—there, also, are its pearly blossoms bending. The Greeks named it the flower of the Wind, and so plentiful is it in our country that we might fancy the breeze had blown it everywhere. The gaudy Anemone of the garden, the emblem of forsaken love, is known to all; but our favourites are the uncultivated offspring of the windy woods, which come long before the broad green leaves hang overhead to shelter them.

All flowers will droop in absence of the sun
That waked their sweets.

Dryden.

Farewell! I've loved thee much!—I feel
That my idolatry was deep;

I know my heart can never heal,

Till in the grave my passions sleep.
Yet I upbraid thee not, my love;
'Twas all I had to offer thee,
Love in its own simplicity.

How could I deem thou wouldst approve?
How hope to draw an angel from above?

Willis.

Acacia.... Friendship.

The Acacia is a native of North America, from Canada to the Carolinas, and was consecrated by the Indians to the goddess of chaste love. Their bows were made of the incorruptible wood of this tree, and their arrows were pointed with its thorns. About a century ago, this tree was introduced into France by Robin, the botanist. It is a large, handsome tree, of quick growth, elegant foliage, and beautiful, rose-coloured blossoms.

Celestial happiness! Whene'er she stoops
To visit earth, one shrine the goddess finds,
And one alone, to make her sweet amends
For absent heaven—the bosom of a friend,
Where heart meets heart, reciprocally soft,
Each other's pillow to repose divine.

Young.

The friend

Who smiles when smoothing down the lonely couch,
And does kind deeds, which any one can do

Who has a feeling spirit,—such a friend
Heals with a searching balsam.

Percival.

Lay this into your breast:

Old friends, like old swords, still are trusted best.

Webster.

O summer friendship,

Whose flattering leaves, that shadowed us in

Our prosperity, with the least gust drop off
In the autumn of adversity!

Massinger.

When thou art near,

The sweetest joys still sweeter seem,

The brightest hopes more bright appear,

And life is all one happy dream,

When thou art near.

Robert Sweney.

That friendship's raised on sand,
Which every sudden gust of discontent,
Or flowing of our passions, can change
As if it ne'er had been.

Massinger.