15 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
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 show 
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. 
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 
ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH A PLOUGH. 
BURNS. 
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 
Thou’s met me in an evil hour, 
For I maun crush amang the stoure* 
Thy slender stem; 
To spare thee now is past my power, 
Thou bonnie gem. 
* Stoure, dust, 
