44 
LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Star of the mead !—sweet daughter of the day, 
Whose opening flower invites the morning ray, 
From thy moist cheek and bosom’s chilly fold. 
To kiss the tears of Eve, the dew-drops cold, 
Sweet Daisy ! 
Leyden. 
When, smitten hy the morning ray, 
I see thee rise, alert and gay, 
Then, cheerful flower ! my spirits play 
With kindred gladness : 
And when, at dark, by dews opprest, 
Thou sink’st, the image of thy rest 
Hath often eased my pensive breast 
Of careful sadness. 
Wordsworth. 
O’er waste and woodland, rock and plain, 
Its humble buds unheeded rise ; 
The Rose has but a summer reign— 
The Daisy never dies. 
Montgomery. 
Not worlds on worlds in phalanx deep 
Need we to prove a God is here; 
The Daisy, fresh from Winter’s sleep, 
Tells of his hand in lines as clear. 
For who but He who arched the slues, 
And pours the day-spring’s living flood, 
Wondrous alike in all He tries, 
Could raise the Daisy’s purple bud; 
