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THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
THE LAUREL. 
TASSO. 
O glad triumphal bough, 
That now adomest conquering chiefs, and now 
Clippest the brows of overruling kings : 
From victory to victory 
Thus climbing on, through all the heights of story, 
From worth to worth, and glory unto glory ; 
To finish all, O gentle and royal tree, 
Thou reignest now upon that flourishing head, 
At whose triumphant eyes Love and our souls are led 
THE BAY. 
E. COOK. 
Whom do we crown with the laurel-leaf? 
The hero-god, the soldier chief; 
But we dream of the crushing cannon-wheel, 
Of the flying shot and the reeking steel, 
Of the crimson plain where warm blood smokes, 
Where clangour deafens and sulphur chokes; 
Oh, who can love the laurel wreath, 
Plucked from the gory field of death ? 
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But there’s a green and fragrant leaf 
Betokens nor revelry, blood, nor grief; 
'Tis the purest amaranth springing below, 
And rests on the calmest, noblest brow. 
It is not the right of the monarch or lord, 
Nor purchased by gold, nor won by the sword; 
For the lowliest temples gather a ray 
Of quenchless light from the palm of bay. 
