Floral Poetry. 
Beautiful nurslings of the early dew, 
Fanned in your loveliness by every breeze, 
And shaded o’er by green and arching trees : 
I often wished that I were one of you, 
Dwelling afar upon the grassy leas— 
I love ye all ! 
Beautiful children of the glen and dell — 
The dingle deep—the moorland stretching wide, 
And of the mossy fountain’s sedgy side ! 
Ye o’er my heart have thrown a lovesome spell; 
And though the worldling, scorning, may deride— 
I love ye all ! 
Robert Nicoll. 
SONNET. 
S WEET is the Rose, but growes upon a brere ; 
Sweet is the Juniper, but sharpe his bough; 
Sweet is the Eglantine, but pricketh nere ; 
Sweet is the Firbloom, but his branches rough; 
Sweet is the Cypress, but his rind is tough ; 
Sweet is the Nut, but bitter is his pill; 
Sweet is the Broome-flowere, but yet sowre enough ; 
And sweet is Moly, but his roote is ill. 
So every sweet with sowre is tempred still, 
That maketh it be coveted the more : 
For easie things that may be got at will, 
.Most sorts of men doe set but little store. 
Why then should I account of little pain, 
That endless pleasure shall unto me game ? 
Spenser. 
