THE SNOW-DROP AND CROCUS.
IN viewing with attention the works of Nature, we cannot fail to notice the
highest degree of
perfection, and harmony of parts.  In the animal creation, when morning is
but dawning,
we have first the plaintive matin of the robin; as the sun becomes nearer
the horizon, the wake-
ful lark, on vibrating wing, gives his cheerful song; the sun once fully
risen, and all the warbiers
of the forest unite in the vocal concert; after a pause, the sun declining,
the nightingale joins
the robin, but with a song in a much more plaintive strain, and she finally
ends in a solo ;a and
when utter darkness closes the scene, the frog croaks, the owl screeches,
and all partake of
the solemnity of night.  An African scene at this late hour is dreadful indeed!
                Besides the
hissing of serpents, there are the continual barkings of the wolf and jackall,
the yell of the
tyger, hyaena, and panther, and the roaring of the lion, appalling every
heart with fear.  With the same judicious harmonizing of parts, the first
flower that appears on the verge of winter is
the Snow-Drop, of a pale white, with a little green in the three central
petals, whose form the
poetess thus elegantly depicts.
                          Poets still in graceful numbers,
                            May the glowing Roses choose:
                          But the SNOW-DROP's simple beauty
                            Better suits an humble muse.
                          Earliest bud that decks the garden,
                            Fairest of the fragrant race,
                          First-born child of vernal Flora,
                            Seeking mild thy lowly place.
                          Though no warm, or murmuring zephyr,
                            Fan thy leaves with balmy wing:
                          Pleas'd, we hail thee, spotless blossom,
                            Herald of the infant spring.
                          Through the cold and cheerless season,
                            Soft thy tender form expands,
                          Safe in unaspiring graces,
                            Foremost of the bloomy bands.
  The plaintive song of PHILOMELA is thus beautifully described by Virgil.
 ORPHEUS laments the loss of Eurydice for seven whole months.
                         The rocks were mov'd with pity to his moans,
                         Trees bent their heads to hear him sing his wrongs,
                         Fierce tygers couch'd around, and loud their fawning
tongues.
                         So, close in poplar shades, her children gone,
                         The mother NIGHTINGALE laments alone;
                         Whose nest some prying boy had found, and thence
                         By stealth convey'd th' unfeatherd innocence.
                         Thus she supplies the night with mournful strains,
                         And melancholy music fills the plains.