200 
THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
That scorns temptation, power defies, 
Where mutual love is not ; 
And to the tomb for rescue flies 
When life would be a blot. 
THE BAY. 
WILLIAM BROWNE. 
Bays still grow, by lightning not struck down— 
The victor’s garland and the poet’s crown. 
ANON. 
O laurel Tree ! long mayst thou crown 
The poet’s brow with deathless fame; 
And all thy glossy leaves shower down. 
THE BAY TREE. 
ELIZA COOK. 
The bay tree i3 a bonny tree, but never is it known 
To flourish in the richest soil that holds the bay alone; 
The bramble and the bitter leaf must fling their shadows 
nigh, 
And then the bay tree rears its head and springs towards 
the sky. 
