Should some rough unfeeling Dobbin,

In this iron-hearted age,
Seize thee on thy nest, my Robin!

And confine thee in a cage;
Then poor Robin! think on me,
Think and sigh for liberty :

Liberty, the brightest jewel
In the crown of earthly joys?
All sensations else are cruel,

All delights besides are toys.
None but captives, such as me,
Know the worth of Liberty.

MONTGOMERY.

THE ANT.

THOU little insect, infinitely small,

What curious texture marks thy tiny frame!
How seeming large thy foresight, and withal,
Thy labouring talents not unworthy fame,
To raise such monstrous hills along the plain,
Larger than mountains, when compar'd with thee:
To drag the crumb dropp'd by the village swain,
Huge size to thine, is strange indeed to me.
But that great Instinct which foretels the cold,
And bids to guard 'gainst Winter's wasteful power,
Endues this mite with cheerfulness to hold

Its toiling labours through the sultry hour:
So that same soothing Power, in misery,
Cheers the poor pilgrim to eternity.

CLARE.

The Ant, Formica, has in all ages been celebrated for its economy, prudent foresight, and unwearied industry. It is offered as a pattern of frugality to the profuse, and of diligence to the slothful. Prov. vi. 6-8. That the ant laid up provision for the Winter, was generally believed by the Ancients, by Virgil, Horace, Ovid, Pliny.-Modern naturalists, however, seem to question this fact, In England these little creatures, so active in the Summer, remain torpid through the Winter months.

TO A WREN,

WHICH FOR MANY YEARS BUILT HER NEST BEHIND AN ASHTREE, WHICH OVERHUNG THE WRITER'S GARDEN.

LITTLE warbler! long hast thou,
Perch'd beneath yon spreading bough,—
Sung beneath yon ivied tree ;—
Thy mossy nest I yearly see,
Safe from all thy peace annoys-
Claws of cats and cruel boys.
We often hear thy chit-chit song
Call thy tiny brood along;

While, in her nest, or on a spray,
The throstle charms us with her lay!
Little warbler! cheerful Wren !
Spring-time's come, and thou again,
Little warbler! thou, like me,
Delight'st in home and harmless glee;
What of peace is to be found
Circles all thy dwelling round;

Here with love beneath the shade,
Thy tranquil happiness is made:
With thy tiny, faithful mate,

Here meet'st resign'd the frowns of fate;
While prouder birds fly high or far,
Or mix them in the strife of war,-

Or restless, through the wide world range,
And restless, still delight in change,
Thou mak'st thy home, a place of rest,
Affection, love, and that is best!

Then welcome, welcome, faithful Wren !
Thrice welcome to thy home again!

JENNINGS.

The Wren, Motacilla Troglodytes, entitled by Drayton our Lady's-hen, enlivens our rustic gardens with its sprightly note, the greater part of the year.

Its" down-covered nest," is not unfrequently built under the brow of a river's bank, and sometimes snugly sheltered in the ivy or honeysuckle on trees and walls. The eggs are seven or eight in number, white, sparingly spotted with red. Shakspeare, who seems to have had an intimate and accurate knowledge of the works of Nature, remarks, "Look where the youngest wren of nine comes."-Twelfth N. iii. 2. If any intruder, boy or weasel, come within the precincts of its nest, it pursues and even attacks most courageously. This powerful affection for its young is also noticed by our great dramatist :

The poor wren,

The most diminutive of birds, will fight,

Her young ones in her nest, against the owl.

Mac. iv. 2.

The weight of this little bird is only two drachms and three quarters, and that of its egg about twenty grains.

THE PIMPERNEL.

SEE'ST yon Pimpernel? an hour is past

And he was holding dalliance with the sun,
All bared his crimson pride: now closed, downcast,
His blossoms seek their favourite skies to shun.
Young Edwin came, the warning change beheld,
Then hurried to his hinds, and hark! I hear
His loaded waggons creaking from the field,

For storms, he says, and angry hours are near.
Oh! 'mid the flowers life's tortuous path that strew,
Is there not one like this? E'en as I speak,
Thy bosom-friend's estranged look review,

Remark his icy eye, his smileless cheek:
Adversity is nigh! Speed, counsel how
To soften as thou mayest th' inevitable blow.

REV. R. W. EVANS.

The Scarlet Pimpernel, Angallis arvensis, is frequently called the Poorman's weather-glass, because its corolla never expands in rainy weather, or when the air is moist. Prof. Martyn observed that this sensitive little flower is on fine days open from eight in the morning, till four in the afternoon. From these curious circumstances, the peasant

"Can in the Pimpernel's red-tinted flowers,

As close their petals, read the measured hours.

HOLY FLOWERS.

THE Snowdrop, in purest white arraie,
First rears her head on Candlemas-daie,
While the Crocus hastens to the shrine
Of Primrose love on St. Valentine.
Then comes the Daffodil beside
Our Ladies' Smock at our Ladye Tyde;
Against St. George, when blue is worn,
The blue Hare-bells the fields adorn ;
While on the daie of the Holy Crosse,
The Crowfoot gilds the flowerie grass.
When St. Barnaby bright smiles night and day,
Poor Ragged Robin blooms in the hay.
The scarlet Lychnis, the garden's pride,
Flames at St. John the Baptist's tide.
Against St. Swithin's hastie showers,
The Lily white reigns Queen of the flowers;

And Poppies a sanguine mantle spread,

From the blood of the Dragon St. Margaret shed.

Then under the wanton Rose, agen,

That blushes for penitent Magdalen.
Till Lammas-daie, call'd August's wheel,
When the long Corn stinks of Camomile,
When Mary left us here below,
The Virgin's-bower begins to blow;
And yet anon the full Sun-flower blew,
And became a star for Bartholomew.
The Passion-flower long has blowed
To betoken us signs of the Holy Rood.
The Michaelmas Daisy, amonge dead weeds,
Blooms for St. Michael's valorous deeds,
And seems the last of flowers that stoode
Till the feast of St. Simon and St. Jude,

Save Mushrooms and the Fungus race,
That grow as Allhallowtide takes place.
Soon the evergreen Laurel alone is seen
When Catherine crowns all learned men.
And Ivy and Holly Berries are seen,

And Yule-clog and Wassail come round again.

Anthol. Aust. et Bor.

THE ROSE.

THE ROSE, the sweetly blooming Rose,

Ere from the tree it's torn,

Is like the charms which beauty shows,
In life's exulting morn!

But oh! how soon its sweets are gone,
How soon it withering lies!
So, when the eve of life comes on,
Sweet beauty fades and dies:

Then since the fairest form that's made
Soon withering we shall find,
Let us possess, what ne'er will fade,

The beauties of the mind.

HON. C. J. Fox.

"Those who have ever gathered a Rose," says Sir J. E. Smith, "know but too well how soon it withers, and the familiar application of its fate to that of human life and beauty, is not more striking to the imagination than philosophically and literally true."

The crimson rose, the bulbul's bride,

The purple violet in the shade,
The lily white, the maiden's pride,
Alike are bright, alike must fade.
The beauteous flake of purest snow,
Its very being must forego.

N