. The language of flowers . ns catch the gale; Oer lawns the lily sheds perfume;The violet in the vale. But this bold floweret climbs the hill,Hides in the forest, haunts the glen, Plays on the margin of the rill,Peeps round the foxs den. Within the gardens cultured roundIt shares the sweet carnations bed. And blooms on consecrated groundIn honor of the dead. The lambkin crops Its crimson wild bee murmurs on its breast. The blue-fly bends its pensile stem,Light oer the skylarks nest. Tis Floras page ; In every every season, fresh and fair,It opens With perennial grace,And blos
. The language of flowers . ns catch the gale; Oer lawns the lily sheds perfume;The violet in the vale. But this bold floweret climbs the hill,Hides in the forest, haunts the glen, Plays on the margin of the rill,Peeps round the foxs den. Within the gardens cultured roundIt shares the sweet carnations bed. And blooms on consecrated groundIn honor of the dead. The lambkin crops Its crimson wild bee murmurs on its breast. The blue-fly bends its pensile stem,Light oer the skylarks nest. Tis Floras page ; In every every season, fresh and fair,It opens With perennial grace,And blossoms everywhere. On waste and woodland, rock and humble buds unheeded rise; Tlie rose has but a summer daisy never dies. VIOLET {Viola). Modesty. Ovid tells us that yiolets were strewn as oflFerings atthe Roman feast of the Feralia, kept for their dead. The violet in her greenwood bower, Where birchen boughs with hazels boast itself the fairest flowerIn glen, or copse, or forest dingle. ?PUBUSHED BYDE VRres iHAfiRA i^tt<-;_bqst0N THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 93 There are no flowers grow in the vale,Kissed by the dew, wooed by the gale,None by the dew of the twilight sweet as the deep-blue violet. Landon. Fairest and sweetest of flowers! What more praisecan be given r If some invisible power should sud-denly sweep away from the earth every tuft of violets,could any flower, of garden, field, or copse, replacethem ? Ah, no ! the very soul of Spring would havepassed away with them. There is no fragrance like that of the violet. Apeculiar freshness and purity make it stand aloneamong all the odors of the floral kingdom. Shakspearefelt it when he wrote of violets sweeter than the lids of Junos eyeaOr Cythereas breath. The Duke in Twelfth Night commands,— *That strain again; it had a dying fall;O, it came oer my ear like the sweet breathes upon a bank of violets,Stealing and giving odor. And at Ophelias grave Laertes cr
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