;154 FLORA HISTORICA. 



and sweetest to the view, 



The Lily of the vale, whose virgin flower 

 Trembles at every breeze beneath its leafy bower. 



Mr. Leigh Hunt calls them 



the nice-leaved lesser Lilies, 



Shading, like detected light, 



Their little greeu-tipt lamps of white. 



Keats says — 



No flower amid the garden fairer grows 

 Than the sweet Lily of the lowly vale, 

 The queen of flowers. 



Hurdis moralizes on this flower that flourishes so 

 well in the shade, where gayer plants would not 

 exist : — 



, to the curious eye 



A little monitor presents her page 



Of choice instruction, with her snowy bells, 



The Lily of the Vale. She nor affects 



The public walk, nor gaze of mid-day sun : 



She to no state or dignity aspires, 



But silent and alone puts on her suit, 



And sheds her lasting perfume, but for which 



We had not known there was a thing so sweet 



Hid in the gloomy shade. So when the blast 



Her sister tribes confounds, and to the earth 



Stoops their high heads, that vainly were exposed, 



She feels it not, but flourishes anew, 



Still shelter'd and secure. And as the storm, 



That makes the high elm couch, and rends the oak, 



Tlie humble Lily spares, — a thousand blows 



That shake the lofty monarch on his throne, 



We lesser folks feel not. Keen are the pains 



Advancement often brings. To be secure, 



Be humble ; to be happy, be content. 



When poets thus sweetly endeavour to reconcile 



