2. The _jasmine_; Pride of Carolina's early Spring! Fairy land Is not more beautiful, than when, full blown, The jasmine, gilt by the Creator's hand, Hangs all around us. MRS. DANA. 3. _Hyacinths_, ringing their soft bells To call the bees from the anemonies, Jealous of their bright rivals' glowing wealth. MISS LANDON. 4. _Primroses_, Which, when the lengthen'd shadows fall Like soft dreams o'er the earth, And all around a sabbath reigns As at creation's birth, Burst the magic bands of clay, And greet with smiles the sun's last ray. MISS M. E. LEE. 5. The chaste _camelia's_ pure and spotless bloom, That boasts no fragrance, and conceals no thorn. W. ROSCOE. 6. The light _snowdrops_, which, starting from their cells, Hang each pagoda with their silver bells. O. W. HOLMES. 7. A _tulip_, which Titania may have chosen For rest or revelry, to feast or doze in. MISS MOISE. 8. _Roses_, Beautiful each, but different all; One with that pure but crimson flush, That marks a maiden's first love blush; _One_, Pale as the snow of the funeral stone; _Another_, rich as the damask die Of a monarch's purple drapery; And _one_ hath leaves like the leaves of gold Worked on that drapery's royal fold. MISS LANDON. 9. The _hare-bell_ on the heath, The forest tree beneath, Which springs like elfin dweller of the wild; Light as a breeze astir Stemm'd with the gossamer, Soft as the blue eyes of a poet's child. MARY HOWITT. 10. Thou sweet _daisy_, common-place Of nature, with that homely face, And yet, with something of a grace, Which love makes for thee! WORDSWORTH. 11. The good old _passion-flower_! It bringeth to thy mind The young days of the Christian church, Dim ages left behind. MARY HOWITT. 12. _Sweet peas_ on tiptoe for a flight, With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers, catching at all things, To bind them round about with tiny rings. KEATS. 13. _Heart's ease._ One could look for half a day Upon this flower, and shape in fancy out Full twenty different tales of love and sorrow, That gave this gentle name. MARY HOWITT. 14. The humble _rosemary_, Whose sweets so thanklessly are shed To scent the dead. MOORE.