92 
THE BOUQUET. 
Good neighbour Cowslip,—I have seen the bee 
Whispering to you, and have been told he stays 
Quite long and late, amid your golden cells. 
It must be business that he comes upon. 
Matter of fact, he never wastes an hour. 
Know you that he’s a subtle financier ? 
And rifles where he can ? and has the name 
Of taking usury ? So, have a care, 
And don’t invest without good hope of gain. 
I would not be a slanderer,—but just give 
A little kind advice. 
Narcissus pale,— 
Had you a mother, child, who kept you close 
Over your needle, or your music books ? 
And never let you sweep a room, or make 
A pudding in the kitchen ? I’m afraid 
She shut you from the air and tanning Sun, 
To keep you delicate,—or let you draw 
Your corset lace too tight. I would you were 
As buxom as your cousin Daffodil, 
Who to the sharp wind turns her tawney cheek, 
Unshrinking, like a damsel taught to spin, 
And milk the cows, and knead the bread, and lead 
An useful life, her nerves by labor strung, 
To bear its duties and its burdens too. 
Lilac of Persia, tell us some fine tale 
Of Eastern lands. We’re fond of travellers. 
Have you no legend of some Sultan proud ? 
Or old fire-worshipper ? Not even a note 
Taken on your voyage ? Well, ’tis monstrous odd. 
That you should let so rare a chance slip by, 
