LILY, Yellow. 



Lilium lutea. 



Falsehood. And yet he falsely said he was in love. 



He 's light as air, 

 False as the fowler's artful snare. . . 



Dryden. 



Smollet. 



And days may come, thou false one, yet, 



* * * * 



When thou wilt call with vain regret, 

 On her thou 'st lost for ever. 



On her, who in thy fortune's fall, 

 With smiles had still receiv'd thee, 



And gladly died to prove thee all 



Her fancy first believ'd thee. . . , 



Moore. 



LILY OF THE VALLEY. 



Convallaria. 



Delicacy. With secret sighs the virgin lily droops. . . Darwin. 



* * * * Like the lily, 

 That once was mistress of the field, and flourished, 

 I '11 hang my head and perish Shake. 



She never told her love, 

 But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, 

 Feed on her damask cheek ; she pin'd in thought. 



Her eye may grow dim, and her cheek may grow pale, 

 But tell they not both the same fond tale ? 

 Love's lights have fled from her eye and her cheek 

 To burn and die on the heart which they seek. 



L. E. L. 



And had he not long read 

 The heart's hush'd secret, in the soft dark eye 

 Lighted at his approach, and on the cheek, 

 Colouring all crimson at his lightest look ? . . same. 



What is the tale that I would tell ? not one 



Of strange adventure, but a common tale 



Of woman's wretchedness ; one to be read 



Daily, in many a young and blighted heart. . same. 



The wounded dove, when dying, feels the smart, 



Closing her wings, conceals the cruel dart : 



So love, abandon'd, flies from every eye, 



Conceals its woes, in solitude to die. . . . Irving. 



