76 
The Poetry of Flowers. 
Is it for want of sleep, 
Or childish lullaby? 
Or that ye have not seen as yet 
The violet ? 
Or brought a kiss 
From that sweetheart to this ? 
No, no ; this sorrow shown 
By your tears shed, 
Would have this lecture read : 
1 hat things of greatest, so of meanest worth, 
Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought 
forth. 
THE DAISY. 
BY JOHN MASON GOOD. 
Not worlds on worlds, in phalanx deep, 
Need we to prove that 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 skies, 
And poured the day-spring’s living flood, 
Wondrous alike in all He tries, 
Could rear the Daisy’s purple bud ; 
Mould its green cup, its wiry stem, 
Its fringed border nicely spin, 
And cut the gold-embossdd gem 
That, set in silver, gleams within ; 
And fling it unrestrained and free, 
_ O'er hill and dale, and desert sod, 
That man, where’er he walks, may see, 
At every step, the stamp of God ? 
