Strew me the ground with daffodowndillies, And cowslips, and king-cups, and loved lillies.

C. SPENSER-The Shepherd's Calender. Song. St. 12.

Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a brere; Sweet is the juniper, but sharp his bough; Sweet is the eglantine, but sticketh near; Sweet is the firbloom, but its branches rough; Sweet is the cypress, but its rind is tough; Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill;

Sweet is the broom-flowre, but yet sour enough;

And sweet is moly, but his root is ill. d. SPENSER-Sonnet XXVI.

The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near";

And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"
And the lily whispers, "I wait."

m. TENNYSON-Maud. Pt. XXII.

With roses musky-breathed,
And drooping daffodilly,
And silverleaved lily,
And ivy darkly-wreathed,
I wove a crown before her,
For her I love so dearly.
TENNYSON--Anacreontics.

n.

And buttercups are coming, And scarlet columbine, And in the sunny meadows The dandelions shine.

The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue;
And polyanthus of unnumbered dyes.
p. THOMSON-The Seasons. Spring.
Line 531.

A lovely tint flushes the wind-flower's cheek, Rich melodies gush from the violet's beak, On the rifts of the rock, the wild columbines grow,

Their heavy honey-cups bending low. SARAH HELEN WHITMAN-The Waking of the Heart.

1.

The tulips lift their proud tiars,
The lilac waves her plumes,
And peeping through my lattice-bars
The rose-acacia blooms.

The violet by its mossy stone,

The primrose by the river's brim

And chance-sown daffodil.

S.

Pine. !

WHITTIER-- Wordsworth.

No More.

Written on

a Blank Leaf of His Memoirs.

BEAN. Faba.

Harem.

And swete as is the bremble flour
That bereth the reede keepe.
k.

CHAUCER-The Tale of Sir Thopas.

Line 35.

Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows, Wild bramble of the brake!

So, put thou forth thy small white rose; I love it for his sake.

Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow
O'er all the fragrant bowers,

Thou need'st not be ashamed to show
Thy satin-threaded flowers;

For dull the eye, the heart is dull
That cannot feel how fair,
Amid all beauty, beautiful

Thy tender blossoms are!

How delicate thy gauzy frill!

How rich thy branching stem!

How soft thy voice, when woods are still, And thou sing'st hymns to them. EBENEZER ELLIOT-To the Bramble

1.

O' the cloth of gold, where pennons swam— Where France set up his lilied shield, His oriflamb,

And Henry's lion-standard rolled;

What was it to their matchless sheen, Their million million drops of gold Among the green!

4. JEAN INGELOW-The Letter L Present. St. 3.