An orphan-girl succeeds: ere she was born Her father died, her mother on that morn: The pious mistress of the school sustains Her parents' part, nor their affection feigns, But pitying feels: with due respect and joy, I trace the matron at her loved employ; What time the striplings, wearied e'en with play, Part at the closing of the summer's day, And each by different path returns the well-known way Then I behold her at her cottage-door, Frugal of light;--her Bible laid before, When on her double duty she proceeds, Of time as frugal--knitting as she reads: Her idle neighbours, who approach to tell Some trifling tale, her serious looks compel To hear reluctant,--while the lads who pass, In pure respect, walk silent on the grass: Then sinks the day, but not to rest she goes, Till solemn prayers the daily duties close. But I digress, and lo! an infant train Appear, and call me to my task again. "Why Lonicera wilt thou name thy child?" I ask the Gardener's wife, in accents mild: "We have a right," replied the sturdy dame; - And Lonicera was the infant's name. If next a son shall yield our Gardener joy, Then Hyacinthus shall be that fair boy; And if a girl, they will at length agree That Belladonna that fair maid shall be. High-sounding words our worthy Gardener gets, And at his club to wondering swains repeats; He then of Rhus and Rhododendron speaks, And Allium calls his onions and his leeks; Nor weeds are now, for whence arose the weed, Scarce plants, fair herbs, and curious flowers proceed, Where Cuckoo-pints and Dandelions sprung (Gross names had they our plainer sires among), There Arums, there Leontodons we view, And Artemisia grows where wormwood grew. But though no weed exists his garden round, From Rumex strong our Gardener frees his ground, Takes soft Senecio from the yielding land, And grasps the arm'd Urtica in his hand. Not Darwin's self had more delight to sing Of floral courtship, in th' awaken'd Spring, Than Peter Pratt, who simpering loves to tell How rise the Stamens, as the Pistils swell; How bend and curl the moist-top to the spouse, And give and take the vegetable vows; How those esteem'd of old but tips and chives, Are tender husbands and obedient wives; Who live and love within the sacred bower, - That bridal bed, the vulgar term a flower. Hear Peter proudly, to some humble friend, A wondrous secret, in his science, lend: - "Would you advance the nuptial hour and bring The fruit of Autumn with the flowers of Spring; View that light frame where Cucumis lies spread, And trace the husbands in their golden bed, Three powder'd Anthers;--then no more delay, But to the stigma's tip their dust convey; Then by thyself, from prying glance secure, Twirl the full tip and make your purpose sure; A long-abiding race the deed shall pay, Nor one unblest abortion pine away." T'admire their Mend's discourse our swains agree, And call it science and philosophy. "'Tis good, 'tis pleasant, through th' advancing year,