KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



141 



tors, guided by custom, instead of obser- 

 vation, fixes his sowing season generally by 

 the month or week ; without considering 

 whether the earth be in a proper state. A. 

 close observation of those productions, in 

 which nature works herself spontaneously — 

 and nature being invariably guided by the 

 state of the seasons and the earth — would 

 afford in time an infallible rule to him, and 

 prevent "the sower sowing with sweat, what 

 the reaper reaps with sorrow." 



It is true that nobody has, as yet, been 

 able to show what trees providence has in- 

 tended should be our calendar. The hints 

 of Linnaeus, however, constitute a universal 

 rule ; for trees and shrubs bud, leaf, flower, 

 and shed their leaves in every country, ac- 

 cording to the differences of the seasons. 

 Stillingfleet is the only man who has at- 

 tempted a Calendar ; but the farmer who 

 would use the sublime idea of Linnaeus, 

 should himself mark the time of budding, 

 leafing, and flowering of different plants. 



Let not the philosopher, in the depth of 

 his astronomy, nor the moralist, in his stu- 

 dies of human nature, look with contempt 

 upon scenes and circumstances that can 

 afford such instruction as trees and flowers. 

 And what a sublime idea — to construct from 

 such observations a grammar, as it were, of 

 nature — to make every flower operate as 

 an example, and every leaf to bear a lesson ! 



TO THE EARLY VIOLET. 



BY W. BAEKER. 



Bashful flower of azure hue ! 

 Breathing perfume, gemm'd with dew ; 

 Sweetest of the glorious train 

 Spring has scattered o'er the plain, 

 Brightest in his coronet — 

 Welcome, early violet ! 



Northern winds no longer blow, 

 Melted is both ice and snow ; 

 Ancient trees begin to bud, 

 Music rings through every wood, 

 And the sparkling streams flash on 

 With a silver singing tone, 

 Whilst the ruby-spotted trout 

 From his still pool leapeth out ; 

 Where the gauze-wing'd insects play 

 In the sun's reviving ray, 

 Blooms — like earth-born stars, are seen, 

 Spangling all the meadows green. 



In the wild wood paths behold 

 Yellow primroses unfold, — 

 And the harebell lifts her head — 

 And the kingcup brood is spread — 

 And the daisy, way-side flower, 

 Opens wide at early hour — 

 And the scarlet pimpernel 

 Joyously expands her cell ; 

 But of all the host so fair 

 Loveliest beyond compare — 

 Turquoise amid emeralds set — 

 First art thou, meek Violet ! 



Now amid the long grass hiding, 



Where some bubbling brook goes chiding ; 



Now close to the old briar's root, 



Now low at the grey rock's foot, 



Now deep in the hawthorn glen, — 



Ever shrinking from our ken, 



Only by their scent we know 



Where the odorous blossoms grow. 



Often thus has holy worth 



In secluded scenes its birth — 



Often thus is genius found 



Denizen of bleakest ground ; 



And hearts touched with heavenly fire, 



In obscurity expire ! 



When the morning's crystal dew 

 Glistens in thy chalice blue, 

 Ere the sun has kissed it dry — 

 Like Joy's tear in Beauty's eye — 

 Or when parting clouds have shed 

 Freshness round thy velvet bed ; — 

 Or mild evening's moisture cool 

 Studs thy petals beautiful, 

 Each faint breeze that o'er thee blows 

 Scatters odor where it goes, 

 And sweeping on in current free, 

 Fragrance gains by wooing thee — 

 Such as thou dost always fling, 

 Bud of promise, flower of Spring, 

 And throughout the genial time, 

 Night, or noon, or hour of prime. 



Roses rich let others seek, 



I will cull the Violet meek ; 



Lilies bright let others praise, 



Flaunting in the summer rays ; 



Hoses cloth'd in crimson rare, 



Cannot with thy flower compare ; 



Neither can the lilies claim, 



In their robes of gold and flame, 



Perfume like my Violet — 



Fairest gem in Spring's wreath set ! 



Flower resembling Helen's eye, 

 In thy purity of dye — 

 Flower that shrinkest into shade, 

 Like the coy retiring maid — 

 Thee I'll always laud and praise 

 In my rude unstudied lays. 

 And because thou fadest soon, 

 Withered by the glowing noon — 

 For thee we will obtain a throne 

 Ariel's self might proudly own. 



Go ! on "my love's " bosom lie, 

 There, exhaling sweetness, die ! 

 So honor'd thou couldst not repine — 



Ah, WOULD THE BLISSFUL DOOM WERE MINE \ 



PROSPERITY AND ADVERSITY. 



Talk of the love that outlives adversity ! the 

 love that remains with prosperity is a thousand 

 times more rare. The one is the keen, but bracing 

 north wind of existence, that invigorates and 

 nerves for exertion ; the other is the enervating 

 hot-breath of summer, which sicklies and weakens 

 our best resolves ; making us feverish, captious, 

 and suspicious even of those we love best. 



