All brightly clad in glossy green,
    And scarlet berries gay to see,
  We welcome next a constant friend,
    The brilliant, cheerful HOLLY-TREE.

  But twilight falls upon the scene;
    Rich odors fill the evening air;
  And, lighting up the dusky shades,
    Gleam the MAGNOLIA’S blossoms fair.

  The fire-fly, with its fairy lamp,
    Flashes within its soft green bower;
  The humming sphinx flits in and out,
    To sip the nectar of its flower.

  Now the charmed air, more richly fraught,
    To steep our senses in delight,
  Comes o’er us, as the ORANGE-TREE
    In beauty beams upon our sight;

  And, glancing through its emerald leaves,
    White buds and golden fruits are seen;
  Fit flowers to deck the bride’s pale brow,
    Fit fruit to offer to a queen.

  But let me rest beneath the PINE,
    And listen to the low, sad tone
  Its music breathes, that o’er my soul
    Comes like the ocean’s solemn moan.

  Erect it stands in graceful strength;
    Its spire points upward to the sky;
  And nestled in its sheltering arms
    The birds of heaven securely lie.

  And though no gaily painted bells,
    Nor odor-bearing urns, are there,
  When the west wind sighs through its boughs,
    Let me inhale the balmy air!

  The stately PALM in conscious pride
    Lifts its tall column to the sky,
  While round it fragrant air-plants cling,
    Deep-stained with every gorgeous dye.

  Linger with me a moment, where
    The LOCUST trembles in the breeze,
  In soft, transparent verdure drest,
    Contrasting with the darker trees.

  The humming-bird flies in among
    Its boughs, with pure white clusters hung,
  And honey-bees come murmuring, where
    Its perfume on the air is flung.

  A noble LAUREL meets our gaze,
    Ere yet we leave these alleys green. 
  ’Mongst many stately, fair, and sweet,
    The DAPHNE ODORA stands a queen.

May 2, 1853.

AUNT MOLLY.

A REMINISCENCE OF OLD CAMBRIDGE.

In looking back upon my early days, one of the images that rises most vividly to my mind’s eye is that of Miss Molly ——­, or Aunt Molly, as she was called by some of her little favorites, that is to say, about a dozen girls, and (not complimentary to the unfair sex, to be sure) one boy.  There was one, who, even to Miss Molly, was not a torment and a plague; and I must confess he was a pleasant specimen of the genus.  At the time of which I speak, the great awkward barn of a school-house on the Common, near the Appian Way, had not reared its imposing front.  In its place, in the centre of a grass-plot that was one of the very first to look green in spring, and kept its verdure through the heats of July, stood the brown, one-storied cottage which she owned, and in which the aged woman lived, alone.  Her garden and clothes-yard behind the house were fenced in; but in front, the visitor to the cottage, unimpeded by gate or fence, turned up the pretty green slope directly from the street to the lowly door.