154 
FLORAL POESY. 
THE LAUREL. 
WORDSWORTH. 
’Tis sung in ancient minstrelsy 
That Phoebus wont to wear 
The leaves of any pleasant tree 
Around his golden hair, 
Till Daphne, desperate with pursuit 
Of his imperious love, 
At her own prayer transformed, took root 
A laurel in the grove. 
Then did the penitent adorn 
His brow with laurel green ; 
And ’mid his bright locks never shorn 
No meaner leaf was seen ; 
And poets sage, in every age, 
About their temples wound 
The bay, and conquerors thanked the gods 
With laurel chaplets crowned. 
Into the mists of fabling time 
So far runs back the praise 
Of beauty, which disdains to climb 
Along forbidden ways; 
That scorns temptations, power defies. 
Where mutual love is not; 
And to the tomb for rescue flies 
When life would be a blot. 
