q6 
Floral Poetry. 
if 
An instinct call it, a blind sense—- 
A happy, genial influence, 
Coming one knows not how, nor whence, 
Nor whither going. 
Child of the year! that round dost run 
Thy pleasant course,—when day’s begun, 
As ready to salute the sun 
As lark or leveret, 
Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain ; 
Nor be less dear to future men 
Than in old time;—thou not in vain 
Art Nature’s favourite. 
Wordsworth. 
THE DAISY. 
H OT worlds on worlds, in phalanx deep, 
Need we to prove that God is here ; 
The Daisy, fresh from Winter’s sleep, 
Tells of His hand in lines as clear. 
For who but He who arched the skies, 
And poured the day-spring’s living flood, 
Wondrous alike in all He tries, 
Could rear the Daisy’s purple bud; 
Mould its green cup, its wiry stem, 
Its fringed border nicely spin, 
And cut the gold-embossed gem 
That, set in silver, gleams within ; 
And fling it unrestrained and free, 
O’er hill and dale, and desert sod, 
That man, where’er he walks, may see, 
At every step, the stamp of God ? 
John Mason Good. 
