Now wanton'd, lost in flags and reeds, Pursued the swallow o'er the meads, It was the time when Ouse display'd Their beauties I intent survey'd With cane extended far, I sought But still the prize, though nearly caught, Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains The floating wreath again discern'd, I saw him, with that lily cropp'd, My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd The treasure at my feet. Charm'd with the sight, "The world," I cried, "Shall hear of this thy deed: My dog shall mortify the pride "But chief myself I will enjoin, To show a love as prompt as thine WILLIAM COWPER. It is with flowers as with moral qualities-the bright are sometimes poisonous, but, I believe, never the sweet. What plant we in this apple-tree? A shadow for the noontide hour, That fan the blue September sky, While children come, with cries of glee, And when, above this apple-tree, And guests in prouder homes shall see, On waste and woodland, rock and plain, The daisy never dies! JAMES MONTGOMERY. THE sense of beauty in Nature, even among cultured people, is less often met with than other mental endowments. UTHER always kept a flower in a glass on his writing-table; and when he was waging his great public controversy with Eckins he kept a flower in his hand. Lord Bacon has a beautiful passage about flowers. As to Shakespeare, he is a perfect Alpine valley-he is full of flowers; they spring, and blossom, and wave in every cleft of his mind. Even Milton, cold, serene, and stately as he is, breaks forth into exquisite gushes of tenderness and fancy when he marshals the flowers. |