clusive of the Cryptogama,) according to Prof. Henslow, amount to 1501 species, and 1625 varieties, of which 98 are supposed to have been naturalized. Thus it appears, that the ratio of the species of British Insects to that of Plants, is more than six to one!-Surely when we reflect upon the immense number and infinite variety of these little beings, their singular metamorphoses, their curious structure, and the admirable ends for which they were created, we cannot fail to exclaim with the wondering poet :

Eminet in minimis maximus ipse Deus.

ENTOMOLOGICAL PURSUITS.

HERE is my friend the weaver :-strong desires
Reign in his breast; 'tis beauty he admires:
See! to the shady grove he wings his way,
And feels in hope the rapture of the day;
Eager he looks, and soon to glad his eyes
From the sweet bower, by Nature form'd, arise
Bright troops of moths, and fresh-born butterflies;
Who break that morning from their half-year's sleep,
To fly o'er flowers, where they were wont to creep.
Above the sovereign oak, a sovereign skims,
The Purple Emperor, strong in wings and limbs;
There fair Camilla takes her flight serene,
Adonis blue, and Paphia, silver queen ;
With every filmy fly, from mead or bower,

And hungry Sphinx, who threads the honied flower;
She o'er the larkspur's bed, where sweets abound,
Views every bell, and hums th' approving sound;
Pois'd on her busy plumes, with feeling nice,
She draws from every flower, nor tries a floret twice.

He fears no bailiff's wrath, no baron's blame,
His is untax'd and undisputed game.

CRABBE.

"So varied," say Kirby and Spence, "is the scenery to which the diversion of the entomologist introduces him, that he is never out of the way: whether on hill or in valley; on upland or plain; on the heath or in the forest; on the land or on the water; in the heart of a country or on its shores; still his game

is within his reach."--Introd., vol. 4, p. 506. The butterflies mentioned in the above lines by our Poet, Crabbe, on account of their extreme beauty, are highly valued by collectors of indigenous Lepidoptera:-the Purple Emperor, Apatura Iris, for "the varying lustres of its purple plumes,"-the White Admiral, Limenitis Camilla, for its graceful elegance, the Clifden Blue, Polyommatus Adonis, for its shining silvery blue,-and the Silver-washed Fritillary, Argynnis Paphia, for the bright metallic dashes which adorn the under-surface of its wings. The "hungry Sphinx," Macroglossum stellatarum, may occasionally be seen frequenting our gardens in sunny weather. It flies with great rapidity, and while hovering over flowers, extracts from them its food with its long spiral tongue hence it has derived the name of the Humming-bird Hawk-moth.

To the novice in Entomology it may be amusing to mention the prices that have been charged by Collectors for some of the rarer British specimens of this untaxed game of the field.

We will conclude this Note with an anecdote of that excellent naturalist, Prof. Jameson :-When visiting Inglebro,' he found the rare beetle, Carabus glabratus, not then known to be indigenous to Britain. The guide, upon its being shown to him, said that the insect was plentiful in that neighbourhood; upon which the Professor, trusting to the guide's ignorance, offered him a shilling for every specimen he should bring. The guide is said to have made a profitable bargain.-Edin. Phil. Journ., vol. 9, p. 89,

TO AN ANCIENT OAK.

MAJESTIC Tree! whose wrinkled form has stood,
Age after age, the Patriarch of the wood;
Thou who hast seen a thousand Springs unfold
Their ravell'd buds, and dip their flowers in gold;
Ten thousand times yon moon re-light her horn,
And that bright star of evening gild the morn;
Gigantic Oak! thy hoary head sublime
Erewhile must perish in the wreck of Time:
Should round thy head innocuous lightnings shoot,
And no fierce whirlwind shake thy steadfast root;
Yet shalt thou fall! thy leafy tresses fade,
And those bare scatter'd antlers strew the glade.

Arm after arm shall leave the mouldering bust,
And thy firm fibres crumble into dust;
The muse alone shall consecrate thy name,
And by her powerful art prolong thy fame;
Green shall thy leaves expand, thy branches play,
And bloom for ever in the immortal lay.

THE WITHERED ROSE.

FAIREST flower, the pride of Spring,
Blooming, beauteous, fading thing,
'Tis as yesterday, when first,
Forth thy blushing beauties burst,
And I mark'd thy bosom swell,
And I caught thy balmy smell,
Fondly hoping soon to see
All thy full-blown symmetry ;—
But I came-and lo! around,
Sadly strewn upon the ground,
Lovely, livid leaves I see-
Oh! can these be all of thee !-
I would weep, for so I've known
Many a vivid vision flown,

Many a hope that found its tomb,
Just when bursting into bloom,
Many a friend-ah! why proceed?
See afresh my bosom bleed—
Rather turn my thoughts on high,
Hopes there are which cannot die,—
Yes, my SAVIOUR, thou canst give
Joys that will not thus deceive.-
Eden's roses never fade,

Eden's prospects know no shade.

REV. H. STOWELL.

"TWAS Eve. The lengthening shadows

And weeping birch swept far adown
the vale ;

And nought upon the hush and stillness broke,
Save the light whispering of the spring-tide gale
At distance dying; and the measur'd stroke

Of woodmen at their toil; the feeble wail
Of some lone stock-dove, soothing, as it sank
On the lull'd ear, its melody that drank.

The sun had set; but his expiring beams

Yet linger'd in the West, and shed around Beauty and softness o'er the wood and streams,

With coming night's first tinge of shade embrown'd. The light clouds mingled, brighten'd with such gleams Of glory, as the seraph-shapes surround, That in the vision of the good descend,

And o'er their couch of sorrow seem to bend.

There are emotions, in that grateful hour

Of twilight and serenity, which steal
Upon the heart with more than wonted power,
Making more pure and tender all we feel,-
Softening its very core, as doth the shower

The thirsty glebe of Summer. We reveal
More, in such hours of stillness, unto those
We love, than years of passion could disclose.

The heavens look down on us with eyes of love,
And earth itself looks heavenly; the sleep
Of Nature is around us, but above

Are beings that eternal vigils keep.

'Tis sweet to dwell on such, and deem they strove
With sorrow once, and fled from crowds to weep
In loneliness, as we perchance have done;
And sigh to win the glory they have won!

'Tis sweet to mark the sky's unruffled blue Fast deepening into darkness, as the rays Of lingering eve die fleetly, and a few

Stars of the brightest beam illume the blaze, Like woman's eye of loveliness, seen through

The veil, that shadows it in vain; we gaze In mute and stirless transport, fondly listening As there were music in its very glistening.