My Rose, so red and round, My Daisy, darling of the summer weather, You must go down now, and keep house together,

m.

Low underground!
ALICE CARY-My Darlings.

The berries of the brier rose
Have lost their rounded pride:
The bitter-sweet chrysanthemums
Are drooping heavy-eyed.

n. ALICE CARY-Faded Leaves. The buttercups and primroses That blossomed in our way.

0. ALICE CARY-To Lucy.

I know not which I love the most,
Nor which the comeliest shows,
The timid, bashful violet,

Or the royal-hearted rose:

The pansy in her purple dress,
The pink with cheek of red,

Or the faint fair heliotrope, who hangs,
Like a bashful maid, her head;
For I love and prize you one and all,
From the least low bloom of spring
To the lily fair, whose clothes outshine
The raiment of a king.

p.

PHOEBE CARY-Spring Flowers.

The anemone in snowy hood,
The sweet arbutus in the wood.

And to the smiling skies above

I say, Bend brightly o'er my love.

MARY CLEMMER- Good-By, Sweetheart.

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!
COLERIDGE-Hymn Before Sunrise in
the Vale of Chamouni.
Roses and jasmine embowered a door
That never was closed to the way worn poor.
ELIZA COOK―The Old Water-Mill.
There spring the wild-flowers-fair as can be.
ELIZA COOK-My Grave.

8.

t.

Yet, no-not words for they

But half can tell love's feeling; Sweet flowers alone can say What passion fears revealing. A once bright rose's wither'd leaf, A tow'ring lily broken,

Oh these may paint a grief

No words could e'er have spoken.
p. MOORE The Language of Flowers.

Beautiful watchers! day and night ye wake!
The evening star grows dim and fades away,
And morning comes and goes, and then the
day

Within the arms of night its rest doth take;
But ye are watchful wheresoe'er we stray:
I love ye all!

q.

ROBERT NICOLLS-Wild Flowers.

He bore a simple wild-flower wreath:
Narcissus, and the sweet-briar rose;
Vervain, and flexile thyme, that breathe
Rich fragrance; modest heath, that glows
With purple bells; the amaranth bright,
That no decay nor fading knows,
Like true love's holiest, rarest light;
And every purest flower, that blows

In that sweet time, which Love most blesses,
When spring on summer's confines presses.
1. THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK-Rhododaphne.

In Eastern lands they talk in flowers,

And they tell in a garland their loves and