AND FLOWERS OF POETRY. 215 
To go in dreariness of mood, 
O’er a lone heath, that spreads around, 
A solitude like a silent sea, 
Where rises not a hut or tree, 
The wide-embracing sky its bound! 
Oh! beautiful those wastes of heath, 
Stretching for miles to lure the bee, 
Where the wild bird, on pinions strong, 
Wheels round and pours his piping song, 
And timid creatures wander free. 
Mart Howitt. 
SORROWFUL REMEMBRANCES. 
FHE ASANT’s-E YE, OR FLOS ADONIS. 
Look, in the garden blooms the flos adonis, 
And memory keeps of him who rashly died, 
Thereafter changed by Venus, weeping, to this flower. 
Anon. 
Adonis was killed by a boar when hunting. Venus, who 
had quitted the pleasures of Cythereus for his sake, shed many 
tears at his melancholy fate. The fable tells us that these 
were not lost, but mingling with the blood of Adonis, the earth 
received them, and forthwith sprang up a light plant covered 
with purple flowers. Brilliant and transient flowers; alas! too 
faithful emblems of the pleasures of life! you were consecra- 
