THE PHILADELPHIA FLORIST. 



[June 



or even those which contribute to the wants of vegetation in undue 

 proportions, having been once imbibed by a retentive substance, like ^ 

 humus, will be parted with gradually ; and, where matters so liable 

 to chemical change as the lining-coat and contents of vegetable cells 

 are concerned, disease is almost certain to ensue. 



It is not surprising that interested parties should deny the noxious 

 effects of the substances with which they poison the air, which is to 

 a far greater extent than they are probably aware the vehicle of nu- 

 trition to vegetables; but those who are called in support of their 

 notions would do well (except the love of science be far inferior to 

 more worldly motives) to weigh well the circumstances on which 

 vigorous health in plants depends, and they will most assuredly dis- 

 cover how slight a cause is capable of exercising a very powerful 

 action, and that any considerable admixture of heterogenous matter 

 cannot fail after a lapse of time to act injuriously Gard. Chron. 



The Laborer's Wish— By Eliza Cook. 



I never murmur at the lot 



That dooms me as the rich man's slave; 

 His weekly ease I covet not — 



Nor power I seek, nor wealth I crave. 



Labor is good, my strong right hand 



Is ever ready to endure ; 

 Tho' meanly born, I bless my land, 



Content to be amongst its poor. 



But look upon this forehead pale, 

 This tintless cheek, this rayless eye; 



What do they ask? The mountain gale, 

 The dewy sod and open sky. 



I read of high and grassy hills, 



Of balmy dells, and tangled woods ; 



Of lily-cups, where dew distils, 

 Of hawthorns where the ring-dove broods. 



I hear of bright and perfumed flowers, 

 That spring to kiss the wanderer's feet; 



Of forests where the young fawn cowers, 

 Of streamlets rippling, cool and sweet. 



The radiant summer beams may fall, 

 But fail to light my cheerless gloom ; 



They cannot pierce the dusky wall, 

 "Where pallid lingers ply the loom. 



No warbler sings his grateful joys ; 

 No laden hee goes humming by ; 



Nought breaks the shifting shuttle's noise 

 But angry oath or suffering sigh. 



Pent with the crowd, oppressed and faint, 

 My brow is damp, my breath is thick; 



And, tho' my spirit yield no plaint, 

 My pining heart is deadly sick. 



I cannot see the blue of heaven ; 



I cannot see the green grass sod ; 

 I pant to share the blessings given 



To all and each one by a God. 



Give me a spade to delve the soil, 

 From early dawn to closing night; 



The plough, the flail, or any toil 

 That will not shut me from the light. 



I often dream of an old tree, 



With violets round it growing wild ; 



I know that happy dream must be 

 Of where I played a happy child. 



A dog-rose hedge, a cottage door, 

 Still lingers on my wearied brain ; 



I feel my soul yearn more and more, 

 To see that hedge-row once again. 



Double the labor of my task, 

 Lessen my poor and scanty fare ; 



But give, oh, give me what I ask — 

 The sunlight and the mountain air. 



\£j- The Committee on the Moore Testimonial has been pretty 

 successful, having added to the list of subscribers most of the distin- 

 guished literati corps-diplornatique, aristocracy, and literary democra- 

 cy of Britain and Ireland. The Irish in America are compelled to 

 move soon, for the sake of liberty, and the man who has written the 

 history of their native country, free from foreign influence and secta- 

 rian bigotry. A requisition for a meeting is in preparation. Moore's 

 memory has claims on Americans — he was the guest of America in 

 the early days of the history of the United States — he wrote their 

 boat song, and described the striking portions of northern scenery. 



(^Let his memory be cherished. 



._^QSI 



