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we climb the mountain steep, there is the Daisy do we saunter 

 over the many-flowered valley, there also is the Daisy in the 

 park and on the lawn, in the meadow and on the heath, the 

 Daisy rears his cheerful little face, as if to welcome us to his 

 lowly habitation on the turf beneath our feet at all seasons 

 too ; not visiting us in the warm and sunny hours of summer 

 only, but amid the short and bleak days of frost and snow, for 

 well has the poet Montgomery said : 



" O'er waste and woodland, rock and plain, 



Its humble buds unheeded rise, 

 The Rose has but a Summer's reign, 

 The Daisy never^ dies." 



And Wordsworth also has the same thought ; he says, 



44 When Winter decks his few grey hairs, 

 Thee in the scanty wreath he wears. 

 Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, 



That she may sun thee ! 

 Whole Summer fields are thine by right, 

 And Autumn, melancholy wight, 

 Doth in thy crimson head delight, 



When rains are on thee." 



We might call this " bonnie gem" by a thousand sweet 

 names, and liken it to every thing charming and innocent ; 

 for it is " the child's own flower, the emblem of infancy itself.'' 

 The poets abound with the most elegant thoughts on this little 

 favorite. You of course have read Burns' beautiful poem on 

 " The Daisy turned up by his plough," and the two no less 

 beautiful poems of Wordsworth ; and the charming lines of 

 Montgomery, and those by Dr. Ley den, and those by the 

 Rev. W. Fletcher. But it is not its simple beauty and innocence 

 which alone attracts our attention, it is one of the flowers 

 which belongs to Flora's clock it opens at sunrise, and closes 

 at sunset, and this curious property was known to belong to 

 the Daisy, very, very long ago, and is the origin of its name. 

 Chaucer calls it the " eie of the daie" and Ben Jonson writes 

 it " day's eye" and Spencer says, " T/he little Daizie that 

 at evening closes." But I linger too long, perhaps, over this 

 little darling I confess I love it. The following is, however^ 

 too beautiful to be omitted : 



44 Not worlds on worlds in phalanx deep, 



Need we to prove a GOD is here. 



The Dairy fresh from Winter's sleep, 



Tells of His hand in lines as clear. 



