Trace the young poet's fate;

Fresh from his solitude, the child of dreams,
His heart upon his lips he seeks the world,
To find him fame and fortune, as if life
Were like a fairy tale. His song has led
The way before him; flatteries fill his ear,
His presence courted, and his words are caught;
And he seems happy in so many friends.

What marvel if he somewhat overrate

His talents and his state? These scenes soon change.
The vain, who sought to mix their name with his;
The curious, who but live for some new sight;
The idle all these have been gratified,

And now neglect stings even more than scorn.

Miss Landon.

Lilac....First Emotions of Love.

The freshness of the verdure of the Lilac; the flexibility of its branches; the profusion of its flowers; their transitory beauty and their soft hues,—all remind us of those emotions which embellish beauty, and throw such a light around our youthful hours. It is said that Van Spaendonc himself threw down his pencil on viewing a group of Lilacs. Nature seems to have delighted in creating its delicate clusters, which astonish by their beauty and variety. The fragrance of the flowers is even more gratifying than their beauty.

She had grown,

In her unstained seclusion, bright and pure
As a first opening Lilac, when it spreads
Its clear leaves to the sweetest dawn of May.

Percival.

When first thou eamest, gentle, shy, and fond,
My purest, first-born love, and dearest treasure,
My heart received thee with a joy beyond

All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure;
Nor thought that any love again might be
So deep and strong, as that I felt for thee.
Mrs. Norton.

I love thee, and I live! The moon,

Who sees me from her calm above,
The wind, who weaves her dim, soft tune
About me, know how much I love!
Naught else, save night, and the lonely hour,
E'er heard my passion wild and strong;
Even thou yet deem'st not of thy power,
Unless thou read'st aright my song!

Barry Cornwall.

She loves—but knows not whom she loves,
Nor what his race, nor whence he came ;—
Like one who meets, in Indian groves,
Some beauteous bird without a name,
Brought by the last ambrosial breeze,
From isles in the undiscovered seas,
To show his plumage for a day
To wondering eyes, and wing away!

Moore.

TULIP....Declaration of Love.

The Tulip is an extraordinary favourite in many parts of Europe and Asia; and, in Holland and Turkey, the most extravagant prices are paid for fine specimens. On account of the elegance of its form, the beauty of its colours, and its want of fragrance and other useful qualities, this flower has been considered as an appropriate symbol of a female who possesses no recommendation but a beautiful appearance. In the East, the Tulip is employed as the emblem by which a lover makes known his passion to his mistress; as the Tulip expresses the idea that he has a face all fire and a heart all coal.

Not one of Flora's brilliant race

A form more perfect can display:
Art could not feign more simple grace,

Nor 'Nature take a line away.

Yet, rich as morn, of many a hue,

When flushing clouds through darkness strike,

The Tulip's petals shine in dew,

All beautiful, but none alike.

My heart is sad and lonely,

With weariness I pine;

Would thou wert here, mine only,—

Would I were wholly thine!

Montgomery.

H. J. H.