1852.] 



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THE PHILADELPHIA FLORIST. 



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"Without a little enthusiasm, the woild would be at a stand still. — w. h. f. 



Gardeners can read and write sometimes, and many know something 

 of the literature of the day. A few are good Botanists, Musicians, 

 Artists, Poets, Entomologist?, and all are critics more or less. We 

 propose then to indulge in the taste for literature at the expense of the 

 mere practical gardener. Poetry and Flowers are closely connected. 

 Without flowers we should have had little tasteful poetry; without po- 

 etry who could paint the flowers! How many have deified the Rose 

 in verse — how many roses have the poets painted] The Gorse, or as 

 the Highlander has it, the whin, or furze we are told, was almost wor- 

 shipped by Linnseus ; that is, he found in it another incentive to ador- 

 ation of the God of Nature. Oui fair readers, gentle and rosy-finger- 

 ed, I hope, will grace this department with their chaste effusions; if 

 not,, we must appeal to the hard-handed mechanic, who in our need 

 has already aided us with the following : 



[For the Philadelphia Florist.] 



The Lily, Rose, and Violet. 





Who does not lore these beauteous flowers? 

 Sweet ornaments of Nature's bowers; 

 What eye so stoical can view 

 Their dazzling white, and red, and blue, 

 And not think on the kindly powers 

 Which gave to earth these heavenly flowers ? 



I love all nature — from the trees 



Which sigh and moan with evening's breeze, 



To where the oak, with mighty cra^h, 



Falls thaundering 'neath the lightning's flash ! 



I love the floods, and rocks, and rills — 



The gloomy glens and sun-lit hills— 



The sun, and gales, and balmy showers : 



But dearer far I love the flowers ! 



I Jove to see thee, lily, shine, 

 Yet my love's bosom's white as thine; 

 And underneath its hills of snow 

 A thousand fond affections glow — 

 A heart beats fond and true to me — 

 I love her better, flow'r, than thee ! 



I love thee, Rose, for thy bright flush 

 Is like my Mary's modest blush, 



Beaming with truth and happiness, 

 As on her cheek I plant the kiss 

 Which tells of faith and fond devotion, 

 And love, deep, boundless as the ocean; 

 Yes, Rose, I love your beauties rare — 

 But far beneath my Mary fair! 



I love thee, Violet, and why? 

 Because thou'rt like my Mary's eye, 

 When thy dear leaves are steep'd in dew, 

 Aud sparkle with their heavenly blue : 

 Then thou art like those orbs so bright, 

 Which beam on me with purest light; 

 M;'ek and more artless than the dove, 

 Reflecting deep and changeless love. 



I love the Rose and Lily, yet 

 I better love the Violet : 

 For cheeks and lips may blush and smile, 

 Anil bosoms heave, and still beguile ; 

 But rarely are eyes less that true 

 Whose color is that heavenly blue — 

 Especially if fringed with jet; 

 Yes, I best love the Violet ! 



J.C. 



The Emigrant's Adieu. 





Farewell, farewell ! my Fatherland ! 

 Before me lies the broad blue sea, 

 Whose waves will waft me far from thee. 

 The ship's afloat', the decks are mann'd— 

 But. ere I leave the hallow'd earth, 

 Where first this changeful life had birth, 

 My knees shall bend in prayer above, 

 To guard the country of my love. 



Farewell, farewell! my Fatherland! 

 They say the sunny clime I seek 

 Will bring back freshness to my cheek, 



By thousand odorous blossoms fann'd; 



But what shall soothe my soul's unrest, 

 What cheer my sick and aching breast, 

 When, fond familiar faces gone, 

 I stand on foreign shores — alone I 



Farewell, farewell ! my fatherland! 



Farewell, my mother's peaceful tomb! 



Farewell ye flowers that round it bloom, 

 Which now I pluck with trembling hand ! 

 Farewell, the scenes of childhood's glee, 

 Where step and spirit bounded free ! 

 The village church — the sabbath bell — 

 Home, love, and country — fare ye well ! 



[N. M. Mag. 



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