John Banister Tabb has embodied 

 in a trifle of verse a fancy of his own 

 concerning the water-h'ly. This is 

 how it runs: — 



" Whence, fragrant form of liglit, 

 Hast thou drifted through the night, 



' SwanUke, to a leafy nest, 

 On the restless waves, at rest ? 



" Art thou from the snowy zone 

 Of a mountain-summit blown, 

 Or the blossom of a dream. 

 Fashioned in the foamy stream ? 



" Nay, — methinks the maiden moon, 

 When the daylight came too soon. 

 Fleeing from her bath to hide. 

 Left her garment in the tide." 



Nor is the lily the child only of the 

 lowlands and fragrant meads; she 

 climbs to high altitudes, and hangs 

 her bell of sweetness there. When on 

 the dizzy heights which bound some 

 precipice, she lays aside the shrinking 

 manner of lowly surroundings, and 

 takes on that daring look which is 

 peculiar to all flowers which dwell on 

 the limits of perpetual snow and ice. 

 86 



