— 

















POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Go, bid the artist’s simple strain 
Your lustre imitate in vain, 
And match your Maker’s skill. 
Daisies, ye flowers of lowly birth, 
Embroiderers of the carpet earth, 
That stud the velvet sod; 
Open to spring’s refreshing air, 
In sweetest smiling bloom declare 
Your Maker, and my God. 

THE MICHAELMAS DAISY. 
THERE’s a sweet little cot in the Emerald Isle, 
With its turf-floor and arm-chair so decent 
and aisy ; 
The sun shines upon it in one golden smile, 
And sweetly beside grows the Michaelmas 
Daisy. 

That plant is more prized than the woodbine or 
brier, 
Tho’ tufts of green shamrock beside them 
are growing; Ht 
For it lights up a spark that will never expire, { 
And a vein in my heart that will ever keep iH 
flowing. ) 



