June. 
53 
THE DAISY. 
Trampled underfoot, 
The daisy lives, and strikes its little root 
Into the lap of Time ; centuries may come, 
And pass away into the silent tomb, 
And still the child, hid in the womb of Time, 
Shall smile and pluck them ! When this simple rhyme 
Shall be forgotten, like a church-yard stone, 
Or lingering lie, unnoticed and alone ; 
When eighteen hundred years, our common date, 
Grow many thousands in their marching state, 
Ay, still the child, with pleasure in his eye, 
Shall cry, “The daisy ! ”—a familiar cry— 
And run to pluck it in the self-same state ; 
And, like a child himself, when all was new, 
Might smile with wonder, and take notice too ! 
Its little golden bosom, filled with snow, 
Might win e’en Eve to stoop adown and shew 
Her partner, Adam, in the silken grass, 
The little gem, that smiled where pleasure was, 
And, loving Eve, from Eden followed ill, 
And bloomed with sorrow, and lives smiling still; 
As once in Eden, under Heaven’s breath, 
So now on Earth, and on the lap of death, 
It smiles for ever. 
Clare. 
