74 
DAISY. 
Within the garden’s cultured round 
It shares the sweet carnation’s bed; 
And blooms on consecrated ground, 
In honour of the dead. 
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 everywhere. 
On waste and woodland, rock and plain, 
Its humble buds unheeded rise: 
The rose has but a summer reign; 
The daisy never dies. 
The same. — leyden. 
Star of the mead! sweet daughter of the day, 
Whose opening flower invites the morning ray, 
From thy moist cheek, and bosom’s chilly fold, 
To kiss the tears of eve, the dew-drops cold! 
Sweet Daisy, flower of love! when birds are pair’d, 
’Tis sweet to see thee with thy bosom bared, 
Smiling, in virgin innocence, serene, 
Thy pearly crown above thy vest of green. 
The lark, with sparkling eye, and rustling wing, 
Rejoins his widow’d mate in early spring, 
