THE POETRY OF FLOWERS 
troop, ignorant of evil, are for ever occupied in enclosing, in im¬ 
perceptible seeds, the flowers that blow in each spring; every 
morn they scatter these seeds upon the earth with the tears of 
Aurora; millions of delicate hands enclose the rose in its hud, 
the grain of wheat in its folds, the vast branches of the oak in 
a single acorn, and, sometimes, an entire forest in an invisible 
seed. 
“ ‘ We have seen, oh, Malvina ! we have seen the infant you 
regret, reclining on a light mist; it approached us, and has 
shed on our fields a harvest of new flowers. Look, oh, Malvi¬ 
na ! among these flowers we distinguish one with a golden disk, 
surrounded by silver leaves ; a sweet tinge of crimson adorns 
its delicate rays; waved hy a gentle wind, we might call it a 
little infant playing in a green meadow. Dry thy tears, oh, 
Malvina! the hero is dead, covered with his arms; and the 
flower of thy bosom has given a new flower to the hills of 
Cromla.’ , 
“ The sweetness of these songs relieved Malvina’s grief; she 
took her golden harp, and repeated the hymn of the newborn. 
“ Since that day the daughters of Morven have consecrated 
the daisy to infancy; ‘ it is,’ said they, ‘ the flower of innocence, 
the flower of the newborn.’ ” 
That old favourite — the daisy — bom 
By millions in the balmy, vernal mom — 
The child’s own flower. 
Carrington. 
Trampled under foot, 
The daisy lives, and strikes its little root 
Into the lap of time; centuries may come, 
And pass away into the silent tomb, 
And still the child, hid in the womb of time, 
Shall smile and pluck them, when this simple rhyme 
