18 
THE LANGUAGE OE FLOWERS. 
Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven, 
He ruined, sink! 
Even thou, who mourn’st the daisy’s fate, 
That fate is thine—no distant date; 
Stern Ruin’s ploughshare drives elate 
Full on thy bloom, 
Till, crushed beneath the furrow’s weight, 
Shall be thy doom ! 
WHITE DAISY. 
THOMAS HOOD. 
Ah ! happy forest glades, 
And murmurous green arcades, 
Ye myriad songsters on the boughs above, 
When here White Daisy strays, 
Greet her with joyous lays, 
And in your madrigals reveal my love. 
Woo her, fond turtle dove, 
Sweet nightingale complain, 
Ask for my heart again. 
While all the warblers of the air, 
Combine to sing the praises of my fair, 
With pipes and trills and wanderings mazy, 
Singing—all Nature loves thee, 
Sweet White Daisy. 
Where her small foot is set, 
Springs the sweet violet, 
And pink-lipped daisies kiss her dress s hem, 
Marking with tiny flowers 
Her footprints in the bowers, 
For joy that she should take her name from them; 
