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THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Understand this firstling was 
Once a brisk and bonny lass, 
Kept as close as Danae was, 
Who a sprightly springald loved ; 
And to have it fully proved, 
Up she got upon a wall, 
’Tempting down to slide withal; 
But the silken twist untied, 
So she fell, and, bruised, she died. 
Jove, in pity of the deed, 
And her loving, luckless speed, 
Turn’d her to this plant we call 
Now “ the flower of the wall.” 
Herrick. 
THE WEEPING WILLOW.— Melancholy. 
Bidlake looks upon it as ever sorrowful:— 
The Willow tribes that ever weep, 
Hang drooping o’er the glassy-bosomed wave. 
WHEAT.— Biches. 
Miss Twamley thus glowingly points to the sight of 
a golden wheat-field :— 
Come, let us rest on yon rude stile where stand 
The village children, and look o’er the sea 
Of golden-coloured grain, that waves beneath 
The gentle breath of the soft Summer’s day. 
