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When the spring came forth in her May-day mood,
Methought 'twas a beautiful sight to see,

'Mid the bursting buds by the zephyr wooed,
The green leafy sprays of the wild-briar tree.

When the sunbeams shone with a warmer glow,
And the honied bells were sipped by the bee,

Could the woodlands a lovelier garland show,
Than the wreath that hung on the wild-briar tree.

But the hours speed on; and Time, as he flies,
Over the valleys breathes witheringly;

And the fairest chaplet of summer dies,
And blossomless now is the wild-briar tree;

The strong have bowed down, the beauteous are dead;

The blast through the forest sighs mournfully; And bared is full many a lofty head;

But there's fruit on the lowly wild-briar tree.

It has cheered yon bird, that, with ijfth gentle swell,
Sings, "What are the gaudy flowers to me?

For here will I build my nest, and dwell
By the simple, faithful, wild-briar tree."

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Veronica cliamcedrys. Wild Germander.
Germander Speedwell.

Diandria Monogynia.

Bunches lateral. Leaves egg-shaped, sitting, wrinkled, toothed. Stem with two opposite rows of hairs.

Bunches frequently opposite. Blossom a fine blue— Withering.

ANECDOTE OF ROUSSEAU.

SCHIMMELPENNINCK *.

The philosopher of Geneva, during his earliest and happiest years, was one day walking with a beloved friend. It was summer: the evening was calm and delightful. The sun was just setting behind the double tower of the church; its broad beams spread their attempered fires in one vast sheet over the clear expanse of the lake; and the painted skiffs that glanced over the transparent water were tipped with vivid light. They sat on a soft, mossy bank, and enjoyed the gay prospect. At their feet was a bright tuft of speedwell. Rousseau's

"" Theory of Beauty and Deformity."
D

friend pointed out to him the little pretty flower, the Veronica chamcedrys, as wearing the same expression of cheerfulness and innocency as the scene before them. No more was said. Thirty years elapsed. Care-worn, persecuted, and disappointed, known to fame but not to peace, Rousseau again visited Geneva. It happened that he one evening passed by the very same spot. The scene was just the same. The sun shone as brightly as before; the birds sung as cheerfully, and rose as merrily on the soft summer air; and the glittering boats skimmed the still surface of the lake as rapidly. But the house where he had spent so many happy hours was levelled with the ground. His kind friend had long slept in the grave. The generation of villagers who had partaken the bounty of the same beneficent hand were passed away, and none remained to point out the green sod where that benefactor lay.

He walked on pensively. The same bank, tufted with the same knot of bright-eyed speedwell, caught his eye. He turned away and wept bitterly.

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