150 
And she must gather flowers to bury you, 
And see the house made handsome. Then she sung 
Nothing but “ Willow, willow, willowand between 
Ever was “ Palamon, fair Palamon!” 
And “ Palamon was a tall young man.”—The place 
Was knee-deep where she sat; her careless tresses 
A wreath of bull-rush rounded; about her stuck 
Thousand fresh-water flowers of several colours; 
That methought she appeared like the fair nymph 
That feeds the lake with waters; or as Iris, 
Newly dropt down from Heaven! Rings she made 
Of rushes that grew by, and to ’em spoke 
The prettiest posies: “ Thus our true love’s tied. 
This you may loose, not me,” and many a one. 
And then she wept, and sung again, and sighed. 
And with the same breath smiled, and kist her hand. 
“ I said the Lily was the Queenly Flower,”' and here, as ih 
allegiance hound, follow some of the gayest of the Floral 
(Jourt—the richly-clad Geraniums. Fashion and culture 
have contributed so much to the aggi'aiidizement of the beau¬ 
tiful tribe of Pelargoniums, or, as they are generally but erro¬ 
neously called. Geraniums, that they now count a greater 
number of royal and illustrious titles in their family than 
any other species of flower can boast. The two branches 
who did me the honour of sitting for their portraits in the 
illustration, display a ciuious historical anachronism, being 
no less personages than the fair Ann Boleyn and the renowned 
patriot-king Caractacus. 
The Lily and the Rose, so long unrivalled in the annals of 
Poesy, are no more the absolute monopolists they have been. 
