W. Howitt.
Passing the eye from the hedge-row to the earth, it lights on the “wee-tipp’d” emblem of “modesty” sung by poets of every clime wherein it blows:—
The Daisy.
There is a flower, a little flower,
With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.
The prouder beauties of the field,
In gay but quick succession shine;
Race after race their honours yield,
They flourish and decline.
But this small flower, to nature dear,
While moon and stars their courses run
Wreaths the whole circle of the year,
Companion of the sun.
It smiles upon the lap of May,
To sultry August spreads its charms,
Lights pale October on his way,
And twines December’s arms.
The purple heath, the golden broom,
On moory mountains catch the gale,
O’er lawns the lily sheds perfume,
The violet in the vale;
But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forests, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox’s den.
Within the garden’s cultured round,
It shares the sweet carnation’s bed;
And blooms on consecrated ground
In honour of the dead.