LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
TO THE SMALL CELANDINE. 
Pansies, Lilies, King-cups, Daisies, 
Let them live upon their praises ; 
Long as there's a sun that sets, 
Primroses will have their glory ; 
Long as there are Violets, 
They will have a place in story ; 
There's a flower that shall be mine, 
'Xis the little Celandine. 
Ere a leaf is on the bush, 
In the time before the thrush 
Has a thought about her nest. 
Thou wilt come with half a call, 
Spreading out thy glossy breast 
Like a careless prodigal; 
Telling tales about the sun, 
When we’ve little warmth, or none. 
Comfort have thou of thy merit, 
Kindly unassuming spirit! 
Careless of thy neighbourhood, 
Thou dost show thy pleasant face 
On the moor, and in the wood, 
In the lane—there’s not a place. 
Howsoever mean it be, 
But ’tis good enough for thee. 
Ill befall the yellow flowers, 
Children of the flaring hours ! 
Buttercups that will be seen, 
Whether we will see or no; 
Others, too, of lofty mien. 
They have done as worldlings do, 
Taken praise that should be thine. 
Little, humble Celandine ! 
Prophet of delight and mirth, 
Ill requited upon earth ; 
Herald of a mighty band, 
Of a joyous train ensuing, . 
Serving at my heart’s command, 
Tasks that are no tasks renewing; 
1 will sing, as doth behove. 
Hymns in praise of what I love ! 
Wordsworth. 
TO BLOSSOMS. 
Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 
Why do ye fall so fast? 
Your date is not so past, 
But you may stay yet here awhile 
To blush and gently smile. 
And go at last. 
What, were you born to be, 
An hour or half’s delight, 
And so to bid good-night? 
Twas pity Nature brought ye forth, 
Merely to show your worth 
And lose you quite. 
But you are lovely leaves, where we 
May read, how soon things have 
Their end, though ne’er so brave : 
And after they have shown their pride. 
Like you, awhile, they glide 
Into the grave. 
Herrick. 
I 
72 
