48. Approaching _trumpets_, that with quavering start, On the smooth wind come dancing to the heart. LEIGH HUNT--_Rimini_. 49. A _laugh_ full of life, without any control But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from the soul. MOORE--_Lalla Rookh_. 50. _Fifes_, _cornets_, _drums_, That rouse the sleepy soul to arms, and bold Heroic deeds. SOMERVILLE--_The Chace_. 51. A _little song_, Neither sad nor very long. BARRY CORNWALL. 52. A voice of music in the rustling leaves, When the green boughs are hung with living lutes, Whose strings will only vibrate to His hand Who made them. MISS H. F. GOULD. 53. The drums beat in the mornin', afore the scriech o' day, And the wee, wee fifes piped loud and shrill, while yet the morn is gray. MOTHERWELL. 54. The unseen _hawk_ _Whistling_ to clouds, and sky-born streams. WORDSWORTH. 55. The low, sweet _shell_, By whose far music shall thy soul be haunted. MISS LANDON. 56. The _trumpet's_ war-note proud, The _trampling_ and the _hum_! MACAULAY. 57. A pattering sound Of ripen'd _acorns_, rustling to the ground Through the crisp, wither'd leaves. MRS. WHITMAN. 58. _Birds_ and _brooks_ from leafy dells, Chiming forth unwearied canticles. WORDSWORTH. 59. When the _organ peal_, loud rolling, meets The halleluiahs of the _choir_; sublime, A thousand notes symphoniously ascend, As if the whole were one; suspended high In air, soaring heavenward, afar they float, Wafting glad tidings to the sick man's couch. GRAHAME--_The Sabbath_. 60. Tinklings of a vigilant guitar, Of sleepless lover to a wakeful mistress. BYRON. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE FLOWER? I would I had some flowers of the Spring that might Become your time of day; and yours;--and yours. _Winter's Tale._ I send thee flowers, oh dearest, and I deem That from their petals thou wilt hear sweet words, Whose music, sweeter than the voice of birds, When breathed to thee alone, perchance may seem All eloquent of feelings unexpress'd. PARK BENJAMIN. A garland lay him by, made by himself Of many several flowers, Stuck in that mystic order that the rareness Delighted me. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE FLOWER? 1. The _sensitive plant_, the earliest Up-gathered unto the bosom of rest, A sweet child, weary of its delight, The feeblest, and yet the favorite, Cradled within the embrace of night. SHELLEY.