OR, LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
227 
Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune 
Than ye speak to my heart, little wildlings of June; 
Of old ruinous castles ye tell! 
I thought it delightful your beauties to find, 
When the magic of nature first breathed on my 
mind, 
And your blossoms were part of the spell. 
Even now, what affections the violet awakes, 
What loved little islands, twice seen in the lakes. 
Can the wild water-lily restore. 
What landscapes I read in the primroses’ looks; 
What pictures of pebbles and minnowy brooks, 
In the vetches that tangle the shore. 
Earth’s cultureless buds! to my heart ye were dear. 
Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear, 
Had scathed my existence’s bloom; 
Once I welcome you more, in life’s passionless 
stage, 
With the visions of youth to revisit my age, 
And I wish you to grow o’er my tomb. 
T. Campbell. 
LILIES. 
Observe the rising lily’s snowy grace. 
Observe the various vegetable race; 
They neither toil nor spin, but careless grow, 
Yet see, how warm they blush! how bright they 
glow! 
