THE DAISY, 
In shoals and bands, a morrice train, 
Thou greet’st the traveller in the lane, 
Pleased at his greeting thee again ; 
Yet nothing daunted, 
Nor grieved if thou be set at naught: 
And oft alone in nooks remote 
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, 
When such are wanted. 
Be violets in their secret mews 
The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose ; 
Proud be the rose, with rains and dews 
Her head impearling ; 
Thou liv’st with less ambitious aim, 
Yet hast not gone without thy fame ; 
Thou art, indeed, by: many a claim, 
The Poet’s darling. 
If to a rock from rains he fly, 
Or, some bright day of April sky, 
Imprisoned by hot sunshine, lie 
Near the green holly, 
And wearily at length should fare ; 
He needs but look about, and there 
Thou art !—a friend at hand, to scare 
His melancholy. 


