Songs of the Linncean Tribes. 63 



It will lead to the green hill** flowery brow, 

 Or by hedgerow paths in the vales below, 

 Or through turfy forest glades. 



Pluck not the flowers like the Saxon maid, 

 Nor anxiously watch, if they flourish or fade, 



By the moon of a midsummer night; 

 Nor aloft, as a spell, hang her tassels of gold, 

 Like the Cambrian swain, nor like Druids of old 



Bid them dwell in mystic rite. 



SONG OF THE SYNGENESIAN TRIBES. 



Though we boast not Triandria's corn and grass, 



Yet our Thistles feed the laboring ass — 



And the small birds rejoice in the leafy bowers, 



As they feed on the seeds of the Groundsel flowers. 



With us the cerulean Cyanus is seen, 



And our own fair Daisy decks the green, 



And the Succory opens its azure eye, 



Beneath the light of the summer sky. 



Fair are our flowers, but yet more fair v 



Are the seeds that lightly float on the air. 



When the fading blossom has lost its grace, 



A feathering down supplies its place, 



And wafts its seed on the passing gale 



To its rightful home on hill or vale. 



Those winged seeds are thickly stored, 



In the urn of the purple Salsify, 

 The Coltsfoot keeps a secret hoard, 



And in the Camomile cups they lie. 

 Chief of the woodlands and queen of the meads, 

 Accept our flowers and our downy seeds. 



SONG OF THE GYNANDRIAN TRIBES. 



In the quiet shades 



Of our forest glades, 

 The fair Epipactis her blossom unfolds, 



Aud the Orchis race, 



Our field banks that grace, 

 The wandering shepherd with wonder beholds. 



In our pastures green 



Ladies' tresses are seen, 

 In our woods Cypripedeum's purple flower ; 



And Sistera there, 



Her nest doth prepare, 

 And Herminium brings her musk to our bower. 



