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to know? or is it really that you never heard of a Flower Fete ?""

"Oh, how beautiful that must be, Frank! And do they all go?"

"Ay, that they do the great convolvulus, and the little violet-the large lily and the snow-drop."

"And where do they hold their meeting? in the gardens, is it?"

It is

"Oh, no-there they bloom and blossom all the summer time, whispering softly-mayhap singing sweetly to each other; for theirs is then a life of perfect pleasure, each giving happiness to the other, mingling their odours on the breeze, and blending their colours in the sunshine. in the winter they have their balls. Then they are carried away into the king's palace, and the great conservatory, and into the splendid salons of the grand duke, and there it is they have their balls; and what beautiful balls they are so graceful and so elegant!"

"Oh, how I wish to see one," cried Ida, in delight at the bare thought; "and my poor dear little flowers here, how they must have tired themselves, they look so weary and worn out."

And as she said this,she took her doll out of her little bed, and laid the flowers in her place, to mind and tend them because they were so sickly.

"No, Sophy," said she to the doll, 68 you needn't look cross or vexed. You are in good health, and can sleep very well for one night in the drawer here; but these poor little things are very, very ill, and need great care."

And night came, and little Ida kissed her flowers, and went to bed and fell asleep-fast asleep; but when it grew late-past midnight, I believe -she heard a slight rustling noise in the room, and she awoke, and what did she behold but two flowers standing beside the soft bed, leaning over it, and as if whispering to the others; and they arose at first wearily, but after a little, more lightly-and moved softly from the bed, and out of the room. Ida guessed what they were about, and slipped gently from her bed and followed them. They took their way across the garden, and over the little bridge, and then down the long promenade under the tall linden trees till they came to the park. The great gates were closed and locked, and two sentries were there; but they

slipped past unseen, and somehow, Ida knew not by what means she followed equally unnoticed. At last, they arrived at the palace. The doors were shut, but no matter for that-they passed in easily as before, and Ida with them, and never stopped till they reached the ball-room. It was not lighted up; for though the king had a ball there, all the guests were gone, and the lamps extinguished, and all in darkness.

"How will they dance here?" thought Ida. "There is neither light nor music;" but at the moment a tall shrub moved aside the curtain, and a flood of bright moonlight, clear and glittering as silver, bathed the room, while the night-wind gently opened the window, and sighed a soft, but delicious strain over the flowers that lay like dead or sleeping along the polished floor. What a change was then, and in a second too! As if by magic, they arose, and mingling embraces, began the ball. There were tall and fair lilies, like pale but lovely girls, graceful and mild to look upon; and here came hyacinths, like naval officers, with their blue coats and white facings; and then again there were generals, in carnation and gold; and beauties in pale rose tints; while old dowagers moved stately along, as turn-cap lilies or snapdragons; and prosy old privy councillors, and elderly lords of the bedchamber, were seen as wall-flowers or drowsy poppies,gay enough to look upon, but very sleepy on nearer acquaintance; sly diplomates came as fox-gloves; and arch widows peeped out in mingled sorrow and coquetry, like two-facesunder-a-hood; little violots were midshipmen, and the tulips were flaunting belles, over-drest and gaudy, but scarcely fashionable-looking, beside the geranium or the clove-pink. And they danced so beautifully all manner of figures, to the soft breathings of the perfumed wind, weaving together in a thousand graceful fancies, and seeming like one all-lovely flower. And there came besides from the botanical garden, many foreign plants and flowers from India, and China, and South America, and far-away lands; strange and curious dresses they wore. some brilliant and glittering, as if with gems; one, white as snow, they called a cactus, a princely-looking fellow, with a fillet of gold around his robe; and there were others, as it were in

armour, with sharp weapons and spears all around them; and a funny little fellow, a Laplander, I believe he was, they said he was an ice-plant, all cold and frost-bitten, with glistening ice all over his leaves-he had no partner, but seemed very happy to be among the rest for all that.

They danced according to their na tional custom-the Polish lilies, the mazurka, the Spanish pinks waltzed, the Chinese roses stepped in droll measure of their own, and a little Indian fellow, with a white cap, twirled round and round, and said he was a dervish!

The ball lasted till daybreak, when the music grew fainter and fainter, and Ida saw her flowers grow weary and turn homeward. She followed them by the same path they came, and as they went she spied a little daisy just opening his eye to the light, and making his toilette in the dew. How fresh and lively he looked, and how unlike the others, who, beautiful

as they were, seemed now faint and almost dying.

"Why wert thou not at the ball, daisy?" said Ida; "thou would'st surely have met some of thy countrymen there."

"No doubt about that," said the daisy smiling; "my countrymen are of all lands; but I am poor and lowly, and never venture to thrust my head in such fine company; enough for me the simple pleasures of the field,' the sunshine and the wind rustling through the grass."

"Thou art not worse off," murmured one of the sybil flowers softly; "if our lives be sweet, they are but short."

So was it when Ida awoke; the flowers were dead and withered, their perfume was gone too, and nothing remained of their beauty, save some dried and colourless leaves. And the daisy-oh! how the daisy finds herself-you have only to go out in the fields and you'll soon know that !

SCRAPS FROM BRALLAGHAN'S COMMON-PLACE BOOK.

BY EDWARD KENEALY, ESQ. LL.B.

Sonnet.

My summer task is ended-the sweet labour
Thou oft hast heard me speak of is complete
Songs rudely cast for rustic pipe and tabor,
Wild quips, and sportive jests and fancies, meet
Here in this little book, that at thy feet
Like some meek suppliant lies. O! ladye fair,
If there be aught within this little tome
Worthy to win one passing thought of thine,
Thou art the cause ;-thy songs of beauty rare,
The pleasant days pass'd in thy happy home
Of roses, myrtle, and green eglantine,

Thy smiles-thy sweet, sweet talk-and angel-heart,
And loveliness, and goodness all divine,

These have inspired the Poet's gentle art.

Jetzt ist mein Werk gethan, das süsse Ziel
Bir nicht ganz unbekannt, ist nun vollendet,
Nur Spass, und Schertz, geringes Musenspiel
Der Dichter Dir mit diesem Buchlein sendet,
Veracht' es nicht, du wonderschone Dame,
Das vor den Fussen Bir als Opfer liegt
Wenn nur e í n Glanz von heller Geistesflamme
Deiner Anmerkung werth darin sieh zeigt
Du hast sie angezündet-deiner Cöone
Lieblicher Klang, die Wohnung auch so theuer
Bedeckt mit Rosen, Lilien und Reben,
Dein holdes Lächeln, Engels Hertz, und schone
Freundliche Sprache-0 í e s e haben Feuer
Glühender Dichterkunst mir oft gegeben.

Copenhagen, July 1.

WILHELM LANDER, LL.D.
Membre de L' Institut de France.

Tá crjoć leam żnó Saṁra-an dil ❀aotar
Minic bo clor leat ŕaim-tá noir réig liom
Cantain a míclód, do ¿rájt-pjob is tábor
Fjadan Raña, griñ rád, is dà mhjána
Añ san mbeg leabar so, rioṁ do ¿roiżżid
Go ŕṁal ag eaċairt ort ;—O Ríżean ġlé
Má tá aon dead-níd añ san mbeg rañ so
Is fić smýneaṁ aṁaín ŕaitsé

Is tŕ fó ndearra—cantain oírdeird binn,
Na laeżaib taitneaiṁ, catag ad áitreab sonad

An mínszoʊ, an mirtil, an glas fíordris
Do zajr, do cáoin-cótirad, is d'ainzil cróide
Do jeanáṁlaċd, do dead-tém, îlle djada.
Arjad do béod srás, mín ealaid an báird.

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Ανθεα καλὰ λέγουσα φιλομμειδής Αριαδνα
Βη διὰ λειμώνων πρωινος ειαρικών,

̓Αλλαις σὺν πολλαῖσι, μετέπρεπε δ' ἔξοχα πασέων
Ως ἴον ειν ἄλλοις ἄνθεσιν ηε ροδον.

Εἶδον έγω κουρας Ελικωπίδας, ειδεν εμ' αυτον,
Ρίμφα δ' ες ἦτορ ἐμὸν τοξα τιταινεν Έρως.
Ανθεα λεξη Αριαδνα, εγω δε φιλην ̓Αριάδνην
Καλλιστον πασης ἄνθος ὁμηλικίης.

Ad Bominam.

Tandem igitur venit lapsis gratissima rebus
Et toties votis hora petita meis;
Accipe quod multo mitto tibi pignus amoris,
Carmina perpetui pignus amoris habe;
Carmina missa tibi quæ carmina, quæque poetas
Diligis, et celebri carmine digna facis.
Musarum studiis, studiis operata Minervæ
Ede tuâ colitur Phœbus, amatque coli.
Ecce timet, doctasque fores pulsare recusat
Tincta verecundas Musa rubore genas.
Me cantare tuas juvat, o pulcherrima, laudes,
Nympha, nec Aoniis dignior ulla modis.
Quod si quid merui de te bene, si quid amavi,
Vive memor nostri, lux mea, vive memor.

Matteo María Boiardo.

Chi non ha visto ancora il gentil viso
Che solo in terra si pareggia al Sole
El' accorte sembianze al mondo sole
El'atto dal mortal tanto diviso:
Chi non vide fiorir quel vago riso
Che germina di rose e di viòle;
Chi non udì le angeliche parole
Che suonano armonia di paradiso ;
Chi mai non vide favellar quel guardo,
Che, come stral di foco, il lato manco
Sovente incende, e mette fiamme al core ;
E chi non vide il volger dolce e tardo
Del soave splendor tra' l nero e l' bianco
Non sa, non sente quel che vaglia amore.
On thy sweet face who ne'er hath fix'd his gaze,
Sweet face outshining sunlight's loveliest beams,
Brighter than aught that mortal fancy dreams,
Glowing with heavenly, not mere earthly, blaze-
Who ne'er hath seen the garden of thy smile,
Roses and lilies blent in living wreath,

Or heard the music-words thy red lips breathe,
Like angel anthems; feeling all the while
The magic of thy glance, that, like quick fires
Shot down from heaven, with love his soul inspires-
He who ne'er saw the slow, the soft, yet wild
Luxuriant langour of thy fawn-like eyes,

Knows not he cannot know-the power that lies
In Beauty, or in Love, the quiver-bearing child.

Lorenzo de Medici.

Spesso mi torna a mente anzi giammai
Si può partir dalla memoria mia
L'abito, e 'l tempo, e 'l luogo dove pria
La mia Donna gentil fiso mirai
Quel che paresse allor, Amor, tu 'l sai,
Che con lei sempre fosti in compagnia ;
Quanto vaga gentil leggiadra e pia,
Non si può dir ne immaginar assai,
Quando sopra i nevosi ed alti monti
Apollo spandi il suo bel lume adorno,
Tal i crin suoi sopra la bianca gonna :
Il tempo e 'l luogo non convien ch' io conti,
Chè dov'è si bel Sole, è sempre giorno
E paradiso, ov'è si bella Donna.

How oft my memory gladly ponders o'er

Those old, old days of passionate first love,
The place, the time, the dress my mistress wore,
When, smiling like a seraph from above,
She won me first. Thou, Cupid, thou canst tell
How she then look'd, for never from her side
Hast thou departed! With what gentle grace
All paradise seemed opening in her face!

As down some snowy mountain's summit wide
A flood of sunshine falls, her tresses fell
Over her robes of white-dream all the rest,
I cannot hymn what passes in my breast.

It must be day where such a sun doth bide,
And heaven the place by her sweet presence blest.

VOL. XXVII.-No. 160.

2 I

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