9S 
THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Oberon. That very time I saw (but thou couldst not) 
Flying between the cold moon and the earth, 
Cupid all armed : a certain aim he took 
At a fair vestal thronhd by the west; 
And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow, 
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts. 
But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft 
Quenched in the chaste beams of the wat’ry moon, 
And the imperial votress passed on, 
In maiden meditation, fancy free. 
Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell. 
It fell upon a little western flower — 
Before, milk-white; now purple with love’s wound,— 
And maidens call it “ Love-in-Idleness.” 
PANSIES. 
ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
“ The lily minds me of a maiden brow,” 
Hugh Sutherland would say; “ the marigold 
Is full and sunny like her yellow hair, 
The full-blown rose her lips with sweetness tipt; 
But if you seek a likeness to her eye,— 
Go to the pansy, friend, and find it there.” 
“ Ay, leeze me on the pansies !” Hugh would say, 
Hugh Sutherland, the weaver,—he who dwelt 
Here in the whitewashed cot you fancy so,— 
Who knew the learned names of all the flowers, 
And recognised a lily, though its head 
Rose in a ditch of dull Latinity! 
Pansies ? You praise the ones that grow to-day 
Here in the garden : had you seen the place 
