80 
FLORAL POESY. 
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath, 
That the rude sea grew civil at her song, 
And certain stars shot madly from their spheres 
To hear the sea-maid’s music. 
Puck. I remember. 
Oleron. That very time I saw (but thou couldst not) 
Flying between the cold moon and the earth, 
Cupid all armed : a certain aim he took 
At a fair vestal throned by the west; 
And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow. 
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts. 
But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft 
Quenched in the chaste beams of the wat’ry moon, 
And the imperial votress passed on, 
In maiden meditation, fancy free. 
Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell. 
It fell upon a little western flower— 
Before, milk-white ; now purple with love’s wound,— 
And maidens call it “ Love-in-Idleness.” 
PANSIES. 
ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
“ The lily minds me of a maiden brow,” 
Hugh Sutherland would say ; “ the marigold 
Is full and sunny like her yellow hair, 
The full-blown rose her lips with sweetness tipt; 
But if you seek a likeness to her eye,— 
Go to the pansy, friend, and find it there.” 
“Ay, leeze me on the pansies ! ” Hugh would say, 
Hugh Sutherland, the weaver,—he who dwelt 
Here in the whitewashed cot you fancy so,— 
