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cultivated kinds suit better the romance and the allusions of 
the poets. 
The Lily of the Vale (for, despite the decision of botanists, 
that our modest little darling cannot claim kindred with the 
illustrious Lily family, a Lily —the Lily, we still fondly call it) 
is a native of our own fair plains and bosky dells; indeed, 
from the chill air of Lapland to the genial simshine of bright 
beaming Italy, the fragile and fragrant Lily of the Valley may 
be found. In the woods of Eileriede, neai- Hanover, they 
grow in the most luxuriant profusion, and quite a festival is 
held during their time of flowering. Every house has a 
bouquet of 
“ The nice-leaved, lesser Lilies, 
Shading, like detected light. 
Their little green-tipt lamps of white;” 
and the woods are crowded with parties celebrating this floral 
anniversary. 
We might almost believe the Lilies must sometimes blush in 
surprise and anger (if such gentle creatures could be imagined 
guilty of human feelings) at some of the quaint and extrava¬ 
gant comparisons which Poets of the olden time used to draw 
between the charms of their demi-goddess ladye loves and 
this fairest of all fair flowers. Hear the following aflinnation of 
an anonymous gentleman, who wrote in the year 1658, “ to 
his Mistresse:”— 
I’ll tell you whence the rose did first grow red. 
And whence the Lilly whiteness borrowed. 
You blushed; and then the rose with red was flight, 
The Lilly kiss’t your hands, and so came wbitc. 
