Still rolling on, with silver chime,

In star-clad night and golden morning.
So went Love on, through cold and heat,
Singing, "The Daisy's ever sweet."
'Twas then the flowers were haunted
With fairy forms and lovely things,
Whose beauty elder bards have chanted,
And how they lived in crystal springs,
And swang upon the honied bells;

In meadows danced round dark green mazes, Strewed flowers around the holy wells,

But never trampled on the Daisies. They spared the star that lit their feet, The Daisy was so very sweet.

When soothed awhile by milder airs,
Thee Winter in the garland wears
That thinly shades his few gray hairs
Spring cannot shun thee;

;

Whole summer fields are thine by right,
And autumn, melancholy wight,
Doth in thy crimson head delight,

When rains are on thee.

In shoals and bands, a morrice train,
Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane;
If welcomed once thou count'st it gain,
Thou art not daunted;

Nor car'st if thou be set at naught:
And oft alone in nooks remote

We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,

When such are wanted.

Miller.

Wordsworth.

I cannot gaze on aught that wears
The beauty of the skies,

Or aught that in life's valley bears
The hues of paradise;

I cannot look upon a star,

Or cloud that seems a seraph's car,
Or any form of purity—
Unmingled with a dream of thee.

P. Benjamin.

The Daisy scattered on each meade and downe,
A golden tuft within a silver crown;
Faire fell that dainty flower! and may there be
No shepherd graced that doth not honour thee.

Browne.

There is a flower, a little flower

With silver crest and golden eye,

That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.

Montgomery.

Heaven may awhile correct the virtuous,
Yet it will wipe their eyes again, and make
Their faces whiter with their tears. Innocence
Concealed is the stolen pleasure of the gods,
Which never ends in shame, as that of men

Doth oftentimes do; but like the sun breaks forth,
When it hath gratified another world;

And to our unexpecting eyes appears
More glorious through its late obscurity.

John Fountain.

PERIWINKLE.... Tender Recollections.

In France, the Periwinkle has been adopted as the emblem of the pleasures of memory and sincere friendship, probably in allusion to Rousseau's recollection of his friend, Madame de Warens, occasioned, after a lapse of thirty years, by the sight of this flower, which they together had admired. This plant is deeply rooted in the soil which it adorns. It throws out its shoots on all sides to clasp the earth, and covers it with flowers, which reflect the hue of heaven. Thus our first affections, warm, pure, and artless, seem to be of heavenly origin.

Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,

And its fragments are sunk in the wave, Though I feel that my soul is delivered

To pain,—it shall not be its slave. There is many a pang to pursue me:

They may crush, but they shall not contemn; They may torture, but shall not subdue me,— 'Tis of thee that I think, not of them.

Byron.

'Tis sweet, and yet 'tis sad, that gentle power,
Which throws in winter's lap the spring-tide flower:
I love to dream of days my childhood knew,
When, with the sister of my heart, time flew
On wings of innocence and hope! dear hours,
When joy sprang up about our path, like flowers!
Mrs. A. M. Wells.

The lesser Periwinkle's bloom,

Like carpet of Damascus' loom,

Pranks with bright blue the tissue wove

Of verdant foliage: and above

With milk-white flowers, whence soon shall swell

Red fruitage, to the taste and smell

Pleasant alike, the Strawberry weaves
Its coronets of three-fold leaves

In mazes through the sloping wood.

Where captivates the sky-blue Periwinkle

Mant.

Under the cottage eaves.

Hurdis.

Remember thee?

Yea, from the table of my memory

I'll wipe away all trivial fond records,

All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past,
That youth and observation copied there;
And thy commandment all alone shall live
Within the book and volume of my brain,
Unmixed with baser matter.

Shakspeare.

Oh! only those

Whose souls have felt this one idolatry

Can tell how precious is the slightest thing
Affection gives and hallows! A dead flower

Will long be kept, remembrancer of looks
That made each leaf a treasure.

Miss Landon.

SWEET-BRIER, or Eglantine....Poetry.

The Eglantine is the poet's flower. In the floral games, it was the prize for the best composition on the charms of study and eloquence. Though its flowers are most beautiful in hue, their fragrance is their more valuable quality. In like manner, the charms of poetry and eloquence should be considered superior to those of appearance.

And well the poet, at her shrine,

May bend and worship while he woos;
To him she is a thing divine,

The inspiration of his line,

His loved one, and his muse.

If to his song the echo rings

Of fame 'tis woman's voice he hears;
If ever from his lyre's proud strings
Flow sounds, like rush of angel wings,
'Tis that she listens, while he sings,
With blended smiles and tears.

Halleck.

Give me the poet's lyre!

And as the seraph in his orbit sings,
Oh, may I strike the heaven-attuned strings,
With a seraphic fire!

With music fill the mighty dome of mind,

And the rapt souls of men in music brightly bind!

J. W. H.