Indeed, as the editor of " Time's Telescope" justly observes, "There is scarcely a single object in the whole vegetable world, in which so many agreeable qualities are combined as in the Rose. In this flower Nature certainly meant to regale the senses of her favourite with an object which presents to him at once freshness, fragrancy, colour, and shape." It is only necessary, my dear friend, to name this work, to recall to your mind the many delightful hours which we have annually enjoyed, in the perusal of its multifarious, but interesting contents, and especially from the respect with which it has uniformly noticed our favourite flower-seldom indeed without a poetical tribute: and however these were in general our old friends, we were glad to meet them among the summer beauties of these volumes: among the tributes which we had not previously seen, you will recollect, that we transcribed from Bernard Barton's poem on flowers, the following lines as his eulogy of the Rose:

"Fruitless and endless were the task, I ween,

With every flower to grace my votive lay;— And unto Thee, their long acknowledg'd QUEEN, Fairest and loveliest! And thy gentle sway, Beautiful Rose, my homage I must pay,—

For how can minstrel leave thy charms unsung, Whose meek supremacy has been alway

Confess'd in many a clime, and many a tongue, And in whose praise the harp of many a bard has rung?

Mine is unworthy such a lovely theme ;

Yet could I borrow of that tuneful bird,
Who sings thy praises by the moon's pale beam,
As Fancy's graceful legends have averr'd,
Those thrilling harmonies at midnight heard

With sounds of flowing waters,—not in vain
Should the loose strings of my rude harp be stirr'd
By inspiration's breath, but one brief strain

Should reassert thy rites, and celebrate thy reign."

Bernard Barton is a member of the Society of Friends, whose plainness and simplicity could hardly find a greater contrast than in the rich and beautiful ROSE for assuredly, of all the imaginary epithets, by which it has been or might be distinguished, nobody would think of calling it "the Quaker flower." I was called upon the other day, by a pretty quaker, who praised and preferred the snowdrop, to give my reasons for loving the Rose, which I did in the following stanzas:

I love the Rose,-it is a noble flower,

In colour rich, and opulent of leaves,
And when her summer garland Flora weaves,
She sees no fairer beauty in her bower;
None which, so redolent of perfume, flings
A sweeter fragrance on the Zephyr's wings.

I love the Rose,-that simple, single one,

Which decks the hedges, delicately white;
Or blushing like a maiden's cheek so slight,
The eye looks anxious lest the tint be gone,
Ere it hath gaz'd enough, or ere the spray
Can from the parent tree be slipp'd away.

I love the Rose,-that monthly one, which blooms
In cottage windows; which is tended there
With maiden constancy by maiden care;
Which through all seasons decorates the rooms,
Like her, whose opening charms appear to be
A lovely blowing bud on beauty's tree.

I love the Rose,—nor least when I perceive
The thistle's pride in Scotia's bonnet worn;
The shamrock green on Erin's banner borne;
O then, imagination loves to weave

Of England's emblem-flowers, a garland, meet
To place on beauty's brow, or lay at valour's feet.

I love the Rose,-its presence to my eye
Like beauty, youth, like hope and health appears,
Recalling the gay dreams of early years;

And when I smell its fragrance wafted by,
I think of virtue, love, benevolence,
Which moral perfumes round life's paths dispense.

I love the Rose,-for bards have ever lov'd

The queen of flowers, the flower of beauty's queen : When in the hedgerow or the garden seen,

Or pluck'd and proffer'd by some friend belov'd

To gentle ANNE, to be by her caress'd,

Then braided with her hair, or worn upon her breast.

I love the Rose,-what time the smiling year
Leads forth in summer glory, Flora's train;

When orchard, garden, woodland, bower, and plain,
Dress'd in their richest garments all appear,
Then-then I love the humblest flower that blows,
But chief of all the tribe-I love the Rose.

This, my dear Anne, is a rambling letter, and you must consider it as a specimen of what are to follow; for I have no intention of affecting the arrangements of a sermon or the formality of an essay in my communications to you, and I know in these annals of the Rose, you will pardon all the defects in the style of

Yours, &c.

LETTER II.

"Child of the Summer, charming ROSE,
No longer in confinement lie;
Arise to light; thy form disclose ;'
Rival the spangles of the sky.

The rains are gone; the storms are o'er;
Winter retires to make thee way:
Come then thou sweetly blushing flower;
Come, lovely stranger, come away."

Casimir.

MY DEAR ANNE,

As biographers in general think it right, to set down something concerning the name and genealogy of the family of the person whose life they write, so I shall, in this letter, proceed to give you some of the botanical characteristics, as well as other incidental particulars of the flower, which is the subject of these memoirs; and I doubt not, but that you will derive new pleasure in your future contemplations of the Rose, from a slight acquaintance with this department of its history, and the illustration and explanation of its technical terms. You are aware, my dear Anne, that the celebrated