92 
THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
It smiles upon the lap of May, 
To sultry August spreads its charms, 
Lights pale October on its way, 
And twines December’s arms. 
The purple heath and golden broom 
On moory mountains catch the gale; 
O’er lawns the lily sheds perfume; 
The violet in the vale. 
But this bold floweret climbs the hill, 
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen, 
Plays on the margin of the rill, 
Peeps round the fox’s den. 
Within the garden’s cultured round 
It shares the sweet carnation’s bed, 
And blooms on consecrated ground 
In honor of the dead. 
The lambkin crops its crimson gem, 
The wild bee murmurs on its breast, 
The blue-fly bends its pensile stem, 
Light o’er the skylark’s nest. 
’Tis Flora’s page ; in every place. 
In every season, fresh and fair, 
It opens with perennial grace, 
And blossoms everywhere. 
On waste and woodland, rock and plain, 
Its humble buds unheeded rise; 
The rose has but a summer reign, 
The daisy never dies.” 
VIOLET ( Viola). Modesty. 
Ovid tells us that violets were strewn as offerings 
the Roman feast of the Feralia, kept for their dead. 
“ The violet in her greenwood bower, 
Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle, 
May boast itself the fairest flower 
In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.” 
Scott. 
