Flowers by the most unpoetical. The emblem of all ages, the interpreter of all our feelings, the Rose mingles with our festivities, our joys, and our griefs. Its fragrance is as delightful as its hues; and no truer emblem of love and beauty could have been chosen.

I have cherished

A love for one whose beauty would have charmed
In Athens. And I know what 'tis to love
A spiritual beauty, and behind the foil
Of an unblemished loveliness, still find
Charms of a higher order, and a power
Deeper and more resistless. Had I found

Such thoughts and feelings, such a clear deep stream
Of mind in one whom vulgar men had thrown

As a dull pebble from them, I had loved

Not with a love less fond, nor with a flame
Of less devotion.

Percival.

There's no miniature

In her face, but is a copious theme,

Which would, discoursed at large of, make a volume. What clear arched brows! what sparkling eyes! the lilies Contending with the roses in her cheeks,

Who shall most set them off. What ruby lips!—

Or unto what can I compare her neck,
But to a rock of crystal? Every limb
Proportioned to love's wish, and in their neatness
Add lustre to the richness of her habit,

Not borrowed from it.

Massinger.

PEONY....Anger.

The Peony is chosen as the emblem of Anger from its red and fiery hues. It is a large double flower, and presents a superb appearance; but is almost destitute of scent.

I am burned up with inflaming wrath;

A

rage, whose heat hath this condition,

That nothing can allay, nothing but blood,

The blood, and dearest valued blood, of France.
Shakspeare.

The wildest ills that darken life
Are rapture to the bosom's strife;
The tempest, in its blackest form,
Is beauty to the bosom's storm;
The ocean, lashed to fury loud,

Its high wave mingling with the cloud,
Is peaceful, sweet serenity,

To anger's dark and stormy sea.

J. W. Eastburne.

Oh, that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth!
Then with a passion would I shake the world.

Shakspeare.

NETTLES.... Cruelty.

Nettles may be considered the appropriate emblem of cruelty. How often, while in search of flowers, have we felt the sting of these unrelenting plants! We call that punishment cruel which visits us without our doing an injury which deserves it; and, as we never wished to be in the vicinity of the Nettles, nor, therefore, to injure them, our boyish fancy looked upon them as cruel.

Spare not the babe,

Whose dimpled smiles from fools exhaust their mercy;
Think it a bastard, whom the oracle

Hath doubtfully pronounced thy throat shall cut,
And mince it sans remorse.

Do not insult calamity;

It is a barbarous grossness to lay on

Shakspeare.

The weight of scorn, where heavy misery

Too much already weighs men's fortunes down.

Oh, he's accurst from all that's good,

Who never knew Love's healing power; Such sinner on his sins must brood,

And wait alone his hour.

If stranger to earth's beauty—human love,
There is no rest below, nor hope above.

Daniel.

Dana.

COLUMBINE....Desertion.

Bring Lilies for a maiden's grave,
Roses to deck the bride,

Tulips for all who love through life

In brave attire to ride:

Bring each for each, in bower and hall, But cull the Columbine for all.

"The Columbine? full many a flower
Hath hues more clear and bright,
Although she doth in purple go,
In crimson, pink, and white.

Why, when so many fairer shine,
Why choose the homely Columbine?"

Examine well each floweret's form,—
Read ye not something more
Than curl of petal—depth of tint?
Saw ye ne'er aught before

That claims a fancied semblance there.
Amid those modelled leaves so fair?

Know ye the cap which Folly wears In ancient masques and plays? Does not the Columbine recall

That toy of olden days?

And is not folly reigning now

O'er many a wisdom-written brow?

'Tis Folly's flower, that homely one;
That universal guest
Makes every garden but a type

Of every human breast;

For though ye tend both mind and bower,
There's still a nook for Folly's flower.

Then gather roses for the bride,
Twine them in her bright hair,
But, ere the wreath be done—oh! let
The Columbine be there.

For rest ye sure that follies dwell
In many a heart that loveth well.

Gather ye laurels for the brow
Of every prince of song!
For all, to whom philosophy
And wisdom do belong.

But ne'er forget to intertwine
A flower or two of Columbine.

Forget it not;—for even they,
The oracles of earth,

Mid all their wealth of golden thoughts,
Their wisdom and their worth,
Sometimes play pranks beneath the sky,
Would scarce become e'en such as I!

Weave ye an armful of that plant,
Choosing the darkest flowers,

With that red, blood-dipped wreath ye bring
The devastating powers