












The Poetry of Flowers. 

Is it for want of sleep, 
Or childish lullaby? 
Or that ye have not seen as yet 
The violet ? 
Or brought a kiss 
From that sweetheart to this? 
No, no; this sorrow shown 
By your tears shed, 
Would have this lecture read : 
That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, 
Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought 
forth. 
——+4+—_ 
THE DAISY. 
BY JOHN MASON GOOD. 
Not worlds on worlds, in phalanx deep, 
Need we to prove that God is here ; 
The Daisy, fresh from Winter's sleep, 
Tells of His hand in lines as clear. 
For who but He who arched the skies, 
And poured the day-spring’s living flood, 
Wondrous alike in all He tries, 
Could rear the Daisy’s purple bud ; 
Mould its green cup, its wiry stem, 
Its fringéd border nicely spin, 
And cut the gold-embosséd gem 
That, set in silver, gleams within ; 
And fling it unrestrained and free, 
O’er hill and dale, and desert sod, 
That man, where’er he walks, may see, 
At every step, the stamp of God? 

























