THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
137 
To draw the idle stare of wandering eyes, 
^ ^ ^ ^ 1'icli 
In precious fragrance is that lowly one, 
So loved for her sweet qualities, that I 
Should woo her first amid a world of flowers. 
Twamley. 
MISTLETOE.—I rise above all. 
Longfellow, adverting to this renowned old shrub, 
speaks of— 
Oaks, from whose branches 
Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic Mistletoe 
flaunted, 
Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets at 
Yule-tide. 
And then he sings, mournfully:— 
Balder the Beautiful is dead, is dead. 
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All things in earth and air bound were by magic spell 
Never to do him harm; even the plants and stones 5 
Al l save the Mistletoe, the sacred Mistletoe! 
Hasder, the blind old god, whose feet are shod with 
silence, 
Pierced through that gentle breast with his sharp 
spear, by fraud 
Made of the Mistletoe, the accursed Mistletoe ! 
MOSS.— Maternal Love. 
There is a fresh and lovely sight, 
A beauteous heap, a hill of Moss, 
