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LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
roadside wastes, excepting in low, marshy lands, 
where it does not grow. We see its bright yellow 
blossoms blooming amid the dark green of the 
underwood, and looking in the glare of the sunlight 
like a bush in flames. Hurdis, in a beautiful poem, 
entitled “ The Village Curate,” says :— 
“ What’s more noble than the vernal Furze, 
With golden baskets hung ? Approach it not, 
For every blossom has a troop of swords 
Drawn to defend it.” 
The Marigold is well known, and there are but 
few country gardens without it; it is still commonly 
used as a pot-herb by the village dames. Shakspeare 
makes it an emblem of grief in the following lines,— 
“ The Marigold that goes to bed with the sun, 
And with him rises weeping.” 
William Browne, in his “ Britannia’s Pastorals,” to 
which I have dedicated a whole chapter in my work 
entitled “ Rural Sketches,” thus marks the close of 
day:— 
“ But, maiden, see the day is waxen old, 
And goes to shut in with the Marygold.” 
And Chatterton, “ the marvellous boy,” calls it 
“ The Marybudde that shutteth with the light.” 
There is something very beautiful in the mingled 
colours of the Sweet-pea, looking as if two or three 
different flowers shot out of the same calyx. It is 
like a little ship, with its rounded prow and arching 
