“ And ’tis, and ever was my wish and way 
To let all flowers live freely, and all die, 
Whene’er their genius bids their souls depart, 
Among their kindred, in their native place. 
I never pluck the rose; the violet’s head 
Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank 
And not reproached me; the ever sacred cup 
Of the pure lily hath between my hands 
Felt safe, unsoiled, nor lost one grain of gold.”— 
W. S. Landor. 
What sa)rs Jean Paul Ritcher ? u There 
» 
are so many tender and holy emotions flying 
about in our inward world, which, like angels, can 
never assume the body of an outward act;—so 
many rich and lovely flowers spring up which 
bear no seed—that it is a happiness poetry was 
invented, which receives into its limbus all these 
incorporeal spirits, and the perfume of all these 
flowers.” It has been our object in the fore¬ 
going pages, and will be in those which follow, 
to give shape and consistency to the many 
beautiful and holy feelings, emotions and fancies, 
which are drawn forth from the human heart 
and brain, by the sight of flowers, to be hidden 
amid the delicate petals, until summoned by the 
