HYACINTH.

PURPLE HYACINTH.

(Sorrow-Play.)

|CCORDING to the mythologists, this fairy-like fragile flower had its origin in the death of Hyacinthus, a Spartan youth, greatly favoured

by Apollo. He fell a victim to the jealous rage of Zephyrus, who, in revenge for the preference manifested for him by the Sun-god, had determined to effect his destruction. Accordingly, one day when Hyacinthus was playing at quoits with his divine friend, Zephyrus blew so powerfully upon the quoit flung by Apollo that it struck the unfortunate prince on the temple and killed him, to the intense grief of his innocent slayer. To commemorate the grace and beauty of the dead youth, Apollo, unable to restore him to life, caused the flower which now bears his name to spring from his blood.

An annual solemnity, called Hyacinthia, was blished in Laconia in honour of Hyacinthus. It lasted three days, during which the people, to show their grief for the loss of their darling prince, ate no bread, but fed upon sweetmeats, and abstained from adorning their hair with garlands as on ordinary occasions.

The following day was spent in feasting. Hence, perhaps, one of the floral meanings-"Play." The purple hyacinth signifies sorrow, as it is said to bear on its petals Apollo's lament for his friend-Ai, Ai-but we fail to trace the letters now.

An allusion to Hyacinthus will also be recognised in Milton's "Lycidas:"

"Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.'

THE HYACINTH.

CASIMIR.

CHILD of the Spring, thou charming flower,

No longer in confinement lie,

Arise to light, thy form discover,
Rival the azure of the sky.

The rains are gone, the storms are o'er,
Winter retires to make thee way;
Come, then, thou sweetly blooming flower,
Come lovely stranger, come away.

The sun is dressed in beaming smiles,
To give thy beauties to the day:
Young zephyrs wait with gentlest gales,
To fan thy bosom as they play.

* Apollo wrote on its leaves his lament, Ai, Ai.

HYACINTHUS.

KEATS.

OR they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intent
On either side, pitying the sad death
Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel breath
Of Zephyr slew him; Zephyr penitent,
Who now, ere Phoebus mounts the firmament,
Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain.

ROSEMARY

(Remembrance.)

"There's rosemary for you: that's for remembrance."

SHAKSPEARE.

UR forefathers invariably adopted Rosemary as the

symbol of remembrance; it was believed to possess the power of improving the memory, and was frequently employed as a means of invigorating the mental faculties. Perdita, in the "Winter's Tale," says:

"For you there's rosemary and rue; these keep
Seeming and savour all the winter long:

Grace and remembrance be with you both!"

And in "Hamlet," Ophelia says:

"There's rosemary for you: that's for remembrance.
Pray you, love, remember."

Michael Drayton, in his "Pastorals," also alludes to this emblem in similar terms:

"He from his lass him lavender hath sent,
Showing her love, and doth requital crave;
Him rosemary his sweetheart, whose intent
Is that he her should in remembrance have."

Respecting its employment at funerals, Mr. Martyn observes that in some parts of England, in his time, it was still customary to distribute it among the company,

who frequently threw sprigs of it into the grave. Slips of it were also sometimes placed within the coffin; and in some secluded villages these innocent customs are still practised.

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

SWEET Scented flower! who art wont to bloom

On January's front severe,

And o'er the wintry desert drear,
To waft thy waste perfume!

Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow,
And as I twine the mournful wreath,

I'll weave a melancholy song,

And sweet the strain shall be and long,—
The melody of death.

Come, funeral flower! who lovest to dwell
With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the deepest gloom
A sweet decaying smell.

Come, press my lips, and lie with me,
Beneath the lowly alder tree;

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
And not a care shall dare intrude
To break the marble solitude,

So peaceful and so deep.

And hark! the wind god as he flies,
Moans hollow in the forest trees,
And sailing on the gusty breeze,
Mysterious music dies.