9 8 
Floral Poetry. 
The shape will vanish—and behold 
A silver shield with boss of gold, 
That spreads itself, some fairy bold 
In fight to cover ! 
I see thee glittering from afar— 
And then thou art a pretty star ; 
Not quite so fair as many are 
In heaven above thee ! 
Yet like a star, with glittering crest, 
Self-poised in air thou seem’st to rest;— 
May peace come never to his nest, 
Who shall reprove thee ! 
Bright flower ! for by that name at last, 
When all my reveries are past, 
I call thee, and to that cleave fast, 
Sweet silent creature ! 
That breath’st with me in sun and air, 
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
My heart with gladness, and a share 
Of thy meek nature. 
Wo7-dsworth. 
THE DAISY. 
Y OW, say, what has the Daisy done, 
Ah That none a song has yet begun, 
Wherein is modestly set forth 
This humble, simple flow’ret’s worth ? 
I’ll of the Daisy sing to-day, 
And in its praise shall be my lay. 
