The Poetry of Flowers. 
i 37 
On Border fray, on feudal crime, 
I dream not while I gaze on thee; 
The chieftains of that stern old time 
Could ne’er have loved a Jasmine-tree. 
THE DAISY IN INDIA. 
BY JAMES MONTGOMERY. 
Thrice welcome, little English flower! 
Thy mother country’s white and red, 
In Rose or Lily, till this hour 
Never to me such beauty spread : 
Transplanted from thy island bed, 
A treasure in a grain of earth, 
Strange as a spirit from the dead 
Thy embryo sprang to birth. 
Thrice welcome, little English flower ! 
Whose tribes beneath our native skies 
Shut close their leaves while vapours lower ; 
But when the sun’s gay beams arise, 
With unabashed but modest eyes, 
Follow his motion to the west, 
Nor cease to gaze till daylight dies, 
Then fold themselves to rest. 
Thrice welcome, little English flower ! 
To this resplendent hemisphere, 
Where Flora’s giant offspring tower 
In gorgeous liveries all the year ; 
Thou, only thou, art little here, 
Like worth unfriended and unknown, 
Yet to my British heart more dear 
Than all the torrid zone. 
