A nun demure, of lowly port ; 
Or sprightly maiden of Love’s court, 
In thy simplicity the sport 
Of all temptations ; 
A queen in crown of rubies drest ; 
A starveling in a scanty vest ; 
Are all, as seem to suit thee best, 
Thy appellations. 
A little Cyclops, with one eye 
Staring to threaten or defy, 
That thought comes next, and instantly 
The freak is over ; 
The freak will vanish, and behold ! 
A silver shield with boss of gold, 
That spreads itself, some fairy bold 
In fight to cover. 
Mr. Wordsworth calls the daisy “an unassuming 
praises it very becomingly for discharging it’s duties so 
cannot agree with him in thinking that it has “a homely face.” Not that we should care, if it r< 
for homeliness does not make ugliness ; but we appeal to every body, whether it is proper to say 
belle Marguerite. In the first place, it’s shape is very pretty and slender, but not too much so. 
lias a boss of gold, set round and irradiated with silver points. 
The daisy, being chiefly white, makes such a beautiful shew in company with the butter cup. 
is not all ; for look at the back, and you find its fair petals blushing with a most delightful red. 
compactly and delicately is the neck set in green ! 
Montgomery, the Bard of Sheffield, has not forgotten the daisy : 
I see thee glittering from afar ; 
And then thou art a pretty star, 
Not quite so fair as many are 
In heaven above thee ; 
Yet like a star, with glittering crest, 
Self-poised in air, thou seem’st to rest ; — 
May peace come never to his nest, 
Who shall reprove thee. 
Sweet flower ; for by that name at last, 
When all my reveries are past, 
I call thee and to that cleave fast ; 
Sweet silent creature ; 
That breath’st with me in sun and air, 
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
My heart with gladness, and a share 
Of thy meek nature. 
common-place of Nature,” which it is : 
cheerfully, in that universal character. 
There is a flower, a little flower, 
With silver crest and golden eye, 
That welcomes every changing hour, 
And weathers every sky. 
The prouder beauties of the field 
In gay but quick succession shine, 
Race after race their honours yield — 
They flourish and decline. 
The lambkin crops its crimson gem, 
The wild-bee murmurs on its breast, 
The blue-fly bends its pensile stem, 
Light o’er the sky-lark’s nest. 
’Tis Flora’s page : in every place, 
In every season, fresh and fair, 
It opens with perennial grace, 
And blossoms every where. 
But this small flower, to nature dear. 
While moons and stars their courses run, 
Wreathes the whole circle of the year, 
Companion of the sun. 
On waste and woodland, rock and plain, 
Its humble buds unheeded rise : 
The rose has but a summer reign, 
The Daisij never dies. 
We will conclude with the charming lines of Burns : 
To a Mountain Daisy. On turning one down with the Plough, in April, 1786. 
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow’r, 
Thou’s met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush among the stoure 
Thy slender stem ; 
To spare thee now is past my pow’r, 
Thou bonnie gem. 
Alas! it’s no thy neebor sweet, 
The bonnie Lark, companion meet ! 
Bending thee ’mang the dewy weet ! 
Wi’ spreckled brest, 
When upward springing, blythe, to greet 
The purpling east. 
Cauld blew the bitter biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 
Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear’d above the parent earth 
Thy tender form. 
The flaunting flow’rs our gardens yield, 
High shelt’ring woods and wa’s maun shield, 
But thou beneath the random bield 
O’ clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble field, 
Unseen, alane. , 
There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawy bosom sunward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 
In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 
And low thou lies. 
Stoure, dust. Glint, to peep. Bield, shelter. Histie, dry. 
The Daisy is the emblem of innocence. 
; and he 
But we 
ially had ; 
this of la 
Then it 
But this 
And how 
