FLOWERS.

I WILL not have the mad Clytie,
Whose head is turn'd by the sun;

The tulip is a courtly quean,

Whom, therefore, I will shun ;

The cowslip is a country wench,

In too much haste to wed,

And clasps her rings on every hand;

The wolfsbane I should dread;

Nor will I dreary rosemarye,

That always mourns the dead ;

But I will woo the dainty rose,

With her cheeks of tender red.

The lily is all in white, like a saint,

And so is no mate for me

And the daisy's cheek is tipp'd with a blush,
She is of such low degree;

Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves,
And the broom's betroth'd to the bee ;-
But I will plight with the dainty rose,

For fairest of all is she.

ΤΟ

STILL glides the gentle streamlet on, With shifting current new and strange ; The water that was here is gone,

But those green shadows never change.

Serene or ruffled by the storm,

On present waves, as on the past,

The mirror'd grove retains its form,

The self-same trees their semblance cast.

The hue each fleeting globule wears,

That drop bequeaths it to the next;
One picture still the surface bears,
To illustrate the murmur'd text.

So, love, however time may flow,

Fresh hours pursuing those that flee, One constant image still shall show My tide of life is true to thee.

ΤΟ

LET us make a leap, my dear,

In our love, of many a year,
And date it very far away,

On a bright clear summer day,
When the heart was like a sun
To itself, and falsehood none;
And the rosy lips a part
Of the very loving heart,

And the shining of the eye

But a sign to know it by ;

When my faults were all forgiven,

And my life deserv'd of Heaven.

Dearest, let us reckon so,

And love for all that long ago;

Each absence count a year complete,

And keep a birthday when we meet.