rOETEY OF FL0WEE3. 
153 
THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. 
White bud ! that in meek beauty so {lost lean, 
The cloistered cheek as pale as moonlight snow, 
Thou seemest beneath thy huge, high leaf of green, 
An Eremite beneath his mountain’s brow. 
White bud ! thou’ft emblem of a livelier thing,__ 
The broken spirit that its anguish bears 
To silent shades, and there sits offering 
To Heaven, the holy fragrance of its tears. 
TO A DAISY. 
■ There is a flower, a little flower, 
With silver crest and golden eye 
That welcomes every changing hour. 
And weathers every sky. 
The prouder beauties of the field 
In gay but quick succession shine, 
Kace after race their honours yield. 
They flourish and decline. 
But this small flower, to nature dear, 
While moon and stars their courses run, 
