THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
57 
Shakspeare evidently cherished this flower. 
“ The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun, 
And with him rises weeping.” 
“ like marigolds, had sheathed their light, 
And canopied in darkness sweetly lay, 
Till they might open to adorn the day.” 
“ Hark ! hark! the lark at Heaven’s gate sings, 
And Phrebus ’gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs 
On chaliced flowers that lies. 
And winking mary-budds begin 
To ope their golden eyes; 
With every thing that pretty bin, 
My lady sweet, arise, 
Arise, arise ! ” 
The practical Gay tells us, — 
“ Fair is the marigold, for pottage meet.” 
The more poetical Keats sings, — 
“ Open afresh your round of starry folds, 
Ye ardent marigolds ! 
Dry up the moisture of your golden lids; 
For great Apollo bids 
That in these days your praises shall be sung 
On many harps, which he has lately strung; 
And when again your dewiness he kisses, 
Tell him I have you in my world of blisses: 
So haply when I rove in some far vale, 
His mighty voice may come upon the gale.” 
We end with part of a fine piece by George Wither. 
“ When with a serious musing I behold 
The grateful and obsequious marigold, 
How duly every morning she displays 
Her open breast, when Titan spreads his rays; 
How she observes him in his daily walk, 
Still bending towards him her small, slender stalk; 
How, when he down declines, she droops and mourns, 
Bedewed as ’twere with tears till he returns; 
