When daisies blush, and wind-flowers wet with dew, When shady lanes with Hyacinth’s are blue, When the elm blossoms o’er the brooding bird, And, wild and wide, the plover’s wail is heard, Where melts the mist on mountains far away, Till morn is kindled into brightest day. _Elliott._ * * * * * Then come the wild weather, come sleet, or come snow, We will stand by each other however it blow. Oppression and sickness, and sorrow, and pain, Shall be to our true love as links to the chain. _Longfellow._ * * * * * She loves him yet! The flower the false one gave her When last he came, Is still with her wild tears wet. She’ll ne’er forget, Howe’er his faith may waver, Through grief and shame, Believe it,--she loves him yet! _Mrs. Osgood._ * * * * * Over the moorland, over the lea, Dancing airily, there are we: Sometimes, mounted on stems aloft, We wave o’er broom and heather, To meet the kiss of the zephyr soft; Sometimes, close together, Tired of dancing, tired of peeping, Under the whin you’ll find us sleeping. Daintily bend we our honied bells, While the gossipping bee her story tells, And drowsily hums and murmurs on Of the wealth to her waxen storehouse gone; And though she gathers our sweets the while, We welcome her in with a nod and a smile. No rock is too high--no vale too low, For our fragile and tremulous forms to grow. Sometimes we crown The castle’s dizziest tower, and look Laughingly down On the pigmy men in the world below, Wearily wandering to and fro. Sometimes we dwell on the cragged crest Of mountain high, And the ruddy sun, from the blue sea’s breast, Climbing the sky, Looks from his couch of glory up, And lights the dew in the bluebell’s cup. We are crowning the mountain With azure bells, Or decking the fountains In forest dells, Or wreathing the ruin with clusters gray, And nodding and laughing the livelong day; Then chiming our lullaby, tired with play. Are we not beautiful? Oh! are not we The darlings of mountain and moorland and lea? Plunge in the forest--are we not fair? Go to the high-road--we’ll meet ye there. Oh! where is the flower that content may tell, Like the laughing and nodding and dancing bluebell. _Louisa A. Twamley._ * * * * * The Hyacinth’s for constancy, Wi’ its unchanging blue. _Burns._ ORCHIS.... _A Belle_.