STAR of the mead! sweet daughter of the day,
Whose opening flower invites the morning ray;
From the moist cheek and bosom's chilly fold,
To kiss the tears of eve, the dewdrops cold!
Sweet Daisy, flower of love! when birds are pair'd,
'Tis sweet to see thee, with thy bosom bar'd,
Smiling in virgin innocence serene,
Thy pearly crown above thy vest of green.
The lark, with sparkling eye and rustling wing,
Rejoins his widow'd mate in early spring,
And as he prunes his plumes of russet hue,
Swears on thy maiden blossom to be true.
Oft have I watch'd thy closing buds at eve,
Which for the parting sunbeams seem'd to grieve;
And when gay morning gilt the dew-bright plain,
Seen them unclasp their folded leaves again;
Nor he who sung-"The daisy is so sweet!"-
More dearly lov'd thy pearly form to greet,
When on his scarf the knight the daisy bound,
And dames to tourneys shone with daisies crown'd,
And fays forsook the purer fields above
To hail the Daisy, flower of faithful love.
The Daisy, Bellis perennis, derives its name from unfolding its simple beauties at the "peep o' day." Spencer speaks of it, as "The little daizie that at evening closes." And Chaucer, who calls it, "eie of daie," lost no opportunity of singing its praises. In days of chivalry, this universal favourite was reckoned the emblem of fidelity in love, and was frequently worn at tournaments, both by ladies and knights. Alcestis was supposed to have been metamorphosed into this flower, and was therefore called "the daisy-queen." In France it receives the name of La Marguerite, being dedicated to St. Margaret, a person of exquisite beauty.
THE BEE'S WINTER RETREAT.
Go, while the summer suns are bright,
Take at large thy wandering flight,
Go, and load thy tiny feet
With every rich and various sweet;
Cling around the flowering thorn,
Dive in the woodbine's honeyed horn,
Seek the wild rose that shades the dell,
Explore the foxglove's freckled bell;
Or in the heath-flower's fairy cup,
Drink the fragrant spirit up.
But when the meadows shall be mown,
And summer's garlands overblown,
Then come, thou little busy bee,
And let thy homestead be with me:-
There, sheltered by the straw-built hive,
In my garden thou shalt live,
And that garden shall supply
Thy delicious alchemy;—
There, for thee, in autumn, blows
The Indian pink and latest rose,
The mignonette perfumes the air,
And stocks, unfading flowers, are there.
Yet fear not when the tempests come,
And drive thee to thy waxen home,
That I shall then, most treacherously,
For thy honey murder thee :-
Oh, no!-throughout the winter drear
I'll feed thee, that another year
Thou mayst renew thy industry
Among the flowers, thou busy bee.
MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH.
TO BLOSSOMS.
FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree
Why do ye fall so fast?
Your date is not so past,
But you may stay here yet awhile
To blush and gently smile,
And go at last!
What, were ye born to be
An hour or half's delight And so to bid good-night? 'Tis pity Nature brought ye forth Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite !
But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things
WELCOME, pale primrose, starting up between
Dead matted leaves of ash and oak, that strew
The every lawn, the wood and spinney through,
'Mid creeping moss and ivy's darker green;
How much thy presence beautifies the ground!
How sweet thy modest unaffected pride
Glows on the sunny bank, and wood's warm side!
And when thy fairy flowers in groups are found,
The schoolboy roams enchantingly along,
Plucking the fairest with a rude delight;
While the meek shepherd stops his simple song,
To gaze a moment on the pleasing sight,
O'erjoy'd to see the flowers that truly bring
The welcome news of sweet returning Spring!
The Primrose, Primula vulgaris, is not, as its name would indicate, the earliest herald of spring; it is preceded by the Whitlow-grass, Draba verna, and the Snowdrop: but in sweetness this flower of loveliest hue yields to none of our vernal flowers.
A spinney means a natural wood, a hedge-row thicket.
D'YE know the little wood mouse,
That pretty little thing,
That sits among the forest leaves,
Or by the forest spring?
Its fur is red, like the red chesnut,
And it is small and slim ;
It leads a life most innocent,
Within the forest dim.
'Tis a timid, gentle creature, And seldom comes in sight; It has a long and wiry tail,
And eyes both black and bright.
It makes its bed of soft dry moss,
In a hole that's deep and strong;
And there it sleeps, secure and warm,
The dreary winter long.
And though it keeps no calendar,
It knows when flowers are springing;
And it waketh to its summer life,
When the nightingale is singing.
Upon the boughs the squirrel plays,
The wood-mouse plays below;
And plenty of food she finds for herself,
Where the beech and the chesnut grow.
She sits in the hedge-sparrow's nest,
When its summer brood is fled,
And picks the berries from the bough
Of the hawthorn overhead.
And I saw a little wood-mouse once,
Like Oberon in his hall,
With the green, green moss beneath his feet, Sit under a mushroom tall.
I saw him sit, and his dinner eat,
All under the forest tree-
His dinner of chesnut, ripe and red;
And he ate it heartily.
I wish you could have seen him there:
It did my spirit good,
To see the small thing God had made
Thus eating in the wood!
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