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But this small flower, to nature dear,
While moons and stars their courses run,
Enwreathes the circle of the year,
Companion of the sun.

It smiles upon the lap of May,
To sultry August spreads its charm,
Lights pale October on his way,
And twines December's arm.

The purple heath and golden broom,
On moory mountains catch the gale,
O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume,
The violet in the vale.

But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Flays on the margin of the rill
Peeps round the fox's den.

Within the garden's cultured round
It shares the sweet carnation's bed;
And blooms on consecrated ground
In honour of the dead.

The lambkin crops its crimson gem,
The wild-bee murmurs on its breast,
The blue-fly bends its pensile stem,
Light o'er the sky-lark's nest.

'Tis Flora's page —in every place,
In every season fresh and fair;
It opens with perennial grace,
And blossoms everywhere.

On waste and woodland, rock and plain,

Its humble buds unheeded rise;

The rose has but a summer-reign j

The Daisy never dies. Montgomery.

"Take (says Rousseau) one of those little flowers which cover all the pastures, and which everybody knows by the name of daisy. Look at it well; for I am sure you would not have guessed, by its appearance, that this flower, which is so small and delicate, is really composed of between two and three hundred flowers, all of them perfect; that is, having each its corolla, stamens, pistil, and fruit. Everyone of those leaves which are white above and red underneath, and form a kind of crown round the flower, appearing to be nothing more than little petals, are in reality so many true flowers; and every one of those tiny yellow things also, which you see in the Centre, and which at first you have, perhaps, taken for nothing but stamens, are real flowers. If you were accustomed to botanical dissections and were armed with a good glass, and plenty of patience, it would be easy to convince you of this. But you may at least pull out one of the white leaves from the flower: you will at first think that it is flat from one end to the other; but look carefully at the end by which it was fastened to the flower, and you will see that this end is not flat, but round and hollow, in form of a tube, and that a little thread, ending in two horns, issues from the tube; this thread ia the forked style of the flower, which, as you now see, is flat only at the top.

Next look at those yellow things in the middle of the flower, and which as I have told you are all so many flowers; if the flower be sufficiently advanced, you will see several of them open in the middle, and even cut into several parts. These are monopetalous corollas, which expand; and a glass will easily discover in them the pistil, and even the anthers with which it is surrounded. Commonly the yellow florets towards the centre are still rounded and closed. These, however, are flowers like the others, but not yet open; for they expand successively from the edge inwards. This is enough to show you by the eye, the possibility that all these small affairs, both white and yellow, may be so many distinct flowers; and this is a constant fact. You perceive, nevertheless, that all these little flowers are pressed, and enclosed in a calyx which is common to them all, and which is that of the daisy. In considering then the whole daisy as one flower, we give it a very significant name when we call it a composite flower."

Lastly, we have

DAISIES FOR THE DEAD.

Peeps not a snow-drop in the bower,

Where never froze the spring?
A Daisy? oh I bring childhood's flower,

The half-blown daisy bring!

Yes, lay the daisy's little head,

Beside the little cheek;
Oh haste! the last of five is dead!

The childless cannot speak! Elliott.

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"We have gathered our "handful of daisies" but are we satisfied? No, so full are these early spring meadows already of fresh grass and budding flowers, breathing out their delicate vernal odours, that our hearts yearn after farther wanderings among the fields of nature and of oetry, and wnilst the fleecy clouds are careering above our eads, and the cawing of noisy rooks is in our ears, and our feet are buried in fresh herbage, and the whole year begins to "grow lush in juicy stalks," let us listen a little longer how the poets have gathered sweet fancies and quaint teachings from these gentle ever-recurring objects in long past years as well as yesterday.

And first let us have the words of a young poet, a true worshipper in the Temple of Nature:

PRIMROSES.

Within a wood, no farther from the sea
Than you might hear the waves dash audibly,
There flowers grew; the high hills closing round,
Made of the little dell a fairy ground
For warmth and greenness; never winter dare
Invade the softness of its tranquil air.
Adown the wood a lucent stream doth brawl,
And earliest here the welcome cuckoo's call;
In the far-distant white-sailed vessels ride.
Or tiny fleets of fishere deck the tide.
My picture is too faint, but it may bring
Some image to you of the scenes I sing.

Bessie Parkes.

Here still are old Herrick's

PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW.

Why doe ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears

Speak griefe in you.

Who were but borne
Just as the modest morne
Teem'd her refreshing dew 1
Alas you have not known that shower

That marres a flower;

Nor felt th' unkind
Breath of a blasting wind;
Nor are ye worne with yeares;

Or wrapt, as we,
Who think it strange to see
Such pretty flowers (like to orphans young),
To speak by teares before they have a tongue.

Speak, whimp'ring younglings; and make known
The reason why
Te droop, and weep.
Is it for want of sleep;
Or childish lullabie?
Or, that ye have not seen as yet
The violet]
Or brought a kisse
- Prom that sweetheart to this
No, no; this sorrow, shown

By your teares shed,
Wo'd have this lecture read,
"That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,
Conceiv'd with grief are, and with teares brought forth."

Here in this old croft, nodding to the breeze, are again flowers from Herriek:

GOLDEN DAFFODILS.

Fair daffodils, we weep to see

You haste away so soon;
As yet the early rising sun

Has not attain'd his noon.
Stay, stay,

Until the hasting day
Has run

But to the even-song;
And having pray'd together, we

Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay as you,

We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay
As you or anything.

We die
As your hours do, and dry
Away

Like to the summer's rain;
Or as the pearls of morning's dew,
Ne'er to he found again.

VI0LETI2TG. 105

And who does not recal with joy Wordsworth's poem to the same beautiful objects ?—

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vale and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden Daffodils.

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle in the milky way,
They stretch in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay;
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they

Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;
A poet could not but be gay

In such a jocund company;
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth to me the show had brought .

For oft when on my couch I lie,

In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude.
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

And now, as Miss Mitford on this occasion prefers to be alone, ere we return home let us invisibly accompany her

A-VIOLETINO.

"March 27th.—It is a dull grey morning, with a dewy feeling in the air; fresh, but not windy; cool, but not cold; the very day for a person newly arrived from the heat, the glare, the noise, and the fever of London, to plunge into the remotest labyrinths of the country, and regain the repose of mind, the calmness of heart, which has been lost in that great battle. I must go violeting—it is a necessity —and I must go alone.

* * * The common that I am now passing—the Lea, as it is called—is one of the loveliest spots near my house.

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