DAISY. 
101 
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 ! 
MASON GOOD. 
N ot worlds on worlds in phalanx deep, 
Need we to prove a God is here ; 
The Daisy, fresh from Winter’s sleep, 
Tells of his hand in lines as clear. 
For who but he who arched the skies, 
And pours the day-spring’s living flood. 
Wondrous alike in all he tries, 
Could rear the daisy’s purple bud?— 
Mould its green cup, its wiry stem; 
Its fringed border nicely spin ; 
And cut the gold-embossed gem, 
That, set in silver, gleams within ? — 
