Sivut kuvina

It has a scent as though Love for its dower

Had on it all his odorous arrows tost;
For, though the rose has more perfuming power,

The Violet (haply 'cause 'tis almost lost,
And takes us so much trouble to discover)
Stands first with most, but always with a lover.


At the Floral Games instituted at Toulouse, in the early part of the fourteenth century, in the time of the Troubadours, the prize awarded to the author of the best poetical composition consisted of a golden Violet, to which several other prizes were afterwards added by Clemence Isaure. This festival, interrupted by the Revolution, was revived in 1806, and is still held annually in the town-house of Toulouse.



FABULOUS history informs us that the Daisy owed its origin to Belides, one of the nymphs called Dryads, who were supposed to preside over meadows and pastures. While dancing on the turf with Ephigeus, whose suit she encouraged, she attracted the admiration of Vertumnus, the deity who presided over orchards; and, to escape from him, she was transformed into the humble flower, the Latin name of which is Bellis. The ancient English name of this flower was Day's Eye, in which way it is written by Ben Jonson; and Chaucer calls it the “ee of the daie.” No doubt it received this designation from its habit of closing its petals at night, which it also does in rainy weather.

The Daisy has always been a favourite with poets. Shakspeare speaks of it as the flower

Whose white investments figure innocence.

Star of the mead !-sweet daughter of the day, Whose opening flower invites the morning ray, From thy moist cheek and bosom's chilly fold, To kiss the tears of Eve, the dew-drops cold, Sweet Daisy!


When, smitten by the morning ray,
I see thee rise, alert and gay,
Then, cheerful flower! my spirits play

With kindred gladness :
And when, at dark, by dews opprest,
Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest
Hath often eased my pensive breast
Of careful sadness.


O'er waste and woodland, rock and plain,

Its humble buds unheeded rise; The Rose has but a summer reignThe Daisy never dies.


Not worlds on worlds in phalanx deep

Need we to prove a 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 pours the day-spring's living flood, Wondrous alike in all He tries,

Could raise the Daisy's purple bud;

Mould its green cup, its wiry stem,

Its fringed border nicely spin,
And cut the gold-embossed 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
In every step the stamp of God!

MASON GOOD. Malvina, bending over the tomb of Fingal, wept for the valiant Oscar, and a son of Oscar's who never beheld the light of day.

The maids of Morven, to soothe her grief, assembled around her, and sang the death of the hero and of the new-born infant.

The hero is fallen, said they, he is fallen! The crash of his arms hath rung over the plain. He is beyond the reach of disease, which enfeebles the soul-of old age, which dishonours the brave. He has fallen, and the crash of his arms hath rung over the plain! In the palace of clouds, where dwell his ancestors, he now quaffs with them the cup of immortality. Dry the tears of thy grief, O daughter of Toscar! The hero is fallen! - he is fallen! - and the crash of his arms hath rung over the plain!

Then, in a softer tone, they said to her: The child which hath not seen the light hath not known the sorrows of life: his young spirit, borne aloft on glittering wings, soars to the abodes of everlasting day. The souls of infants who, like thine, have burst without pain the bonds of life, reclining on golden clouds, appear and open to him the mysterious portal of the manufactory of flowers. There these innocents are continually employed in enclosing the flowers that the next spring shall bring forth in imperceptible germs: these germs they scatter every morning over the earth with the tears of the dawn. Millions of delicate hands enwrap the rose in its bud, the grain of corn in its husk, the mighty oak in a single acorn, a whole forest in an imperceptible seed.

We have seen him, Malvina! we have seen the infant whom thou mournest, borne on a light mist: he approached, and poured upon our fields a fresh harvest of flowers. Behold, Malvina ! - among these Howers there is one with golden disk, encircled with rays of silver, tipped with a delicate tint of crimson. Waving amid the grass in a gentle breeze, it looks like

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