546 
INDEX OP FIRST LINES 
PAGE 
’Tis the last rose of summer... Thos. Moore . 103 
To be a flower ! which would you he. Anonymous . 321 
Tread aside from my starry bloom. Anonymous . 376 
’Twas midnight—through the lattice wreathed_ Thos. Moore . 123 
Under the mistletoe, pearly and green. Anonymous . 198 
Unfold thy face, unmask thy ray . Charles Harvey........ 304 
Unwatched the garden bough shall sway. A. Tennyson . 502 
Upon the sunny bank. Anonymous . 169 
We are blushing roses.. Leigh Hunt . 475 
We have left behind us. Barry Cornwall .425 
We sat down and wept by the waters. Lord Byron . .. 141 
We tend the flowers of every hue. Mrs. Hale . 368 
We wreathed about our darling’s head the morn¬ 
ing-glory bright... Maria Lowell . 359 
Weak with nice sense, the chaste mimosa stands. .Darwin.... . 109 
Weave thee a wreath of woodbine, child. Anonymous . 136 
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower. Bums . 14 
Welcome, dear heart, and a most kind good- 
morrow . Hood . 7 
Welcome, mild harbinger of spring. Barton . 30 
Well/once I was a little girl. H. E. G. Arey . 361 
What first inspired a bard of old to sing. Keats . 51 
What is so rare as a day in June. J. R. Lowell . 334 
What shall I call thee. Caroline A. Briggs ...... 370 
When beechen buds begin to swell. W. C. Bryant . 44 
When first the friendship flower is planted. MUnes . 323 
When I survey the bright. W. Ilabington . 436 
When last we paced these sylvan wilds, dear 
friend. W. P. Palmer . 283 
When Nature tries her finest touch. Keble . 346 
When summer’s sunny hues adorn. Pinckney . 326 
When sycamores are throwing. W. Boiven . 488 
When the copsewood is the greenest. Sir Walter Scott . 117 
When the summer breeces have died away. James Dixon . 277 
When the winds blow. Barry Cornwall . 408 
When with a serious musing I behold. G. Withers . 159 
Wherefore little fluttering things. William P. Palmer — 379 
White bud I that in meek beauty so dost lean. Croly . 73 
Whom do we crown with the laurel leaf ?. Eliza Cook . 153 
Who would have thought a thing so slight. ..Hartley Coleridge . 499 
Whose sad inhabitants each year would come. Shelley . 182 
Why tremblest thou, aspen ? no storm threatens 
nigh. Charles Swain . 184 
Why do ye weep, sweet babes ? can tears. Robert Herrick . 66 
Why this flower is now called so. Herrick . 86 
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