A fleeting moment of delight
I sunn'd me in her cheering sight,
As short I ween the time will be
That I shall parley hold with thee.
Through Snowdon's mist red beams the day,
The climbing herdboy chants his lay,
The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring,-

Thou art already on the wing.

MISS BAILLIE.

The Heath-Cock or Grouse, Tetrao tetrix, is only met with in uncultivated wastes, which are covered with heath and juniper It feeds on the mountain and bog berries, and when these are scarce, on the tops of heath. This bird abounds in North Wales and in the Highlands of Scotland.

TO A WILD BEE.

ROAMER of the mountain!
Wanderer of the plain !

Lingerer by the fountain,

Where thou dost sustain

A part in Nature's rich, and wild, and varied strain !
Fairy of the Summer!

I love to watch thy flight,
When first thou art a comer,
On wings so gauzy light,

Flitting in wildering maze before my dazzled sight.
Thou hummest o'er the heather

Upon the breezy hill;

And in sultry weather,

When every wind is still,

Float'st through the waveless air unto the singing rill.

On the moorland mosses,

Thou sipp'st the fragrant thyme:

And the tufted bosses

Of greenest grass dost climb,

With struggling feet, to rest thy wing in noontide's prime.

In the lily's blossom,

An ivory palace tower,―

In the rose's bosom,

Safe from the sudden shower,

Thou shelterest, heeding not how thunder-clouds may lower.

Thou lov'st the sunny hours,

When upwards thou dost spring,

With the dew from chaste, cool flowers,
And mosses on thy wing,-

The sweet enslaving dew, that doth so closely cling.
Thou lov'st the sunset's glowing,

When, with thy mimic toil,
Half weary, thou art going

Laden with thy sweet spoil,

Unto the quiet home, wherein is no turmoil.
Oh vagrant, happy rover !

Gatherer of treasures rare!

Never did truest lover

A heart so happy bear,

As thou, who woo'st all flowers, without a fear or care.

I would that I might ever

Have thee before mine eyes!

Surely I should endeavour

To learn to be as wise,

And all the simple gifts of holiest Nature prize.

But even now, unsteady!
Thou tak'st again thy flight,
Thy little wings already
Are quivering in the light,

Thy hum is faintlier heard, thou'st darted from

I would when death has still'd me

And check'd this restless heart,
When his icy hand hath chill'd me,
And I must needs depart,

my sight.

I would I might be laid where thou, wild wanderer, art!

And thus the winds should whisper,
And the willow-branches wave;
And the cricket, merry lisper,

And the throstle, minstrel brave,

And thou, thou murmuring Bee! should chorus o'er my grave. MISS M. A. BROWNE.

THE CYPRESS WREATH.

O LADY, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the Cypress tree!
Too lightly glow the lilies light,
The varnish'd holly 's all too bright;
The May-flower, and the eglantine,
May shade a brow less sad than mine;
But, Lady, weave no wreath for me,
Or weave it of the Cypress tree!

Let dimpled mirth his temples twine
With tendrils of the laughing vine;
The manly oak, the pensive yew,
To patriot and to sage be due:
The myrtle bough bids lovers live,
But that Matilda will not give :
Then, Lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the Cypress tree!

Let merry England proudly rear
Her blended roses bought so dear;
Let Albyn bind her bonnet blue
With heath and hare-bell dipp'd in dew;
On favour'd Erin's crest be seen
The flower she loves of emerald green:
But, Lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the Cypress tree!

Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare
The ivy meet for minstrel's hair;
And, while his crown of laurel leaves
With bloody hand the victor weaves,
Let the loud trump his triumph tell;
But when you hear the passing bell,
Then, Lady, twine a wreath for me,
And twine it of the Cypress tree.

Yes! twine for me the Cypress bough;
But, O Matilda, twine not now!
Stay till a few brief months are pass'd,
And I have look'd and lov'd my last !
When villagers my shroud bestrew
With pansies, rosemary, and rue,―
Then, Lady, weave a wreath for me,
And weave it of the Cypress tree !

SIR W. SCOTT.

TO A WILD HEATH-FLOWER.

SWEET floweret! from Nature's indulgence thou'rt cast,
Thy home's on the cold heath, thy nurse is the blast,
No shrub spreads its branches to shelter thy form,
Thou'rt shook by the winds, and thou'rt beat by the storm;
But the bird of the moor on thy substance is fed,
And thou giv'st to the hare of the mountain a bed;
In youth, from the cold winds thou❜lt grant them a space,
And in age, when the fowler 's at war with their race;
The winds may assail thee, the tempest may rage,

Thy nature is proof to the war which they wage;
Thou'lt smile in the conflict, and blossoms unfold,

Where the nurslings of favour would shrink from the cold;
Though rugged and sterile the seat of thy birth,
Simplicity form'd thee of beauty and worth.

Remain then, sweet blossom, the pride of the moor,
In loneliness flourish, unpamper'd and pure,—
Expand in the tempest, and bloom on the brow,
An emblem of sweet independence art thou;
And the soul who beholds thee unhurt in the strife,
Shall learn to contend with the troubles of life;
And when the cold wind of adversity 's felt,
And the shafts of affliction are ruthlessly dealt,
His spirit, unbroken, shall rise to the last,
And his virtues shall open and bloom in the blast,
And his joys shall be sweet when the storm is at rest,
And the sun-beam of glory shall play on his breast.

JOHN JONES.

"The Heath, so common in the northern parts of this kingdom, valuable to the poor as a substitute for more expensive fuel, and to the sportsman as a cover for grouse, affords to the botanist a striking instance of the care of Providence towards his creatures. Its seed is the food of numerous birds, in regions where other sustenance is scarce, and the vessels which contain it are so constructed as to retain their contents for a considerable length of time, instead of discharging them when they become ripe. Indeed, the more we study, the closer we observe the operations and provisions of Nature, the greater will be our wonder, the higher our admiration."

There is a lesson in each flower,

A story in each stream and bower,
On every herb on which you tread
Are written words, which, rightly read,
Will lead you from earth's fragrant sod
To hope, and holiness, and God.

A. CUNNINGHAM.

MEMORY.

THERE's a Bower of Roses by Bendemeer's stream,
And the nightingale sings round it all the day long;
In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream,
To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song:

That bower and its music I never forget,

But oft when alone in the bloom of the year,
I think is the nightingale singing there yet?
Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer?