LAVENDER....Distrust.

It was anciently believed that the asp, a dangerous species of viper, made Lavender its habitual place of abode, for which reason that plant was approached with extreme caution. The Romans used it largely in their baths, from whence its name is derived.

Our doubts are traitors,

And make us lose the good we oft might win,
By fearing to attempt.

Shakspeare.

Who never doubted never half believed,

Where doubt there truth is 'tis her shadow.

Bailey.

When first, with all a lover's pride,
I wooed and won thee for my bride,
I little thought that thou couldst be
Estranged as now thou art from me!

Thy confidence is held from me,

In fear my love but shows,

Like one, art thou, who fears the bee

May sting thee, through the rose.

Anon.

Anon.

PANSY.... Think of me.

The Pansy, or Heart's-ease, is a beautiful variety of the Violet, differing from it in the diversity of its colours. In fragrance it is inferior to the Violet. Pansy is an old English corruption of the French Pensée.

And there are Pansies, that's for thoughts."

CHILDHOOD.

Sister, arise, the sun shines bright,

Shakspeare.

The bee is humming in the air,
The stream is singing in the light,
The May-buds never looked more fair;

Blue is the sky, no rain to-day:

Get up, it has been light for hours,
And we have not begun to play,

Nor have we gathered any flowers.

Time, who looked on, each accent caught,
And said, "He is too young for thought."

YOUTH.

To-night, beside the garden-gate?

Oh, what a while the night is coming!
I never saw the sun so late,

No heard the bee at this time humming!

I thought the flowers an hour ago

Had closed their bells and sunk to rest:
How slowly flies that hooded crow!

How light it is along the west!
Said Time, "He yet hath to be taught

That I oft move too quick for thought."

MANHOOD.

What thoughts wouldst thou in me awaken?
Not love? for that brings only tears—
Nor friendship? no, I was forsaken!
Pleasure I have not known for years:
The future I would not foresee,

I know too much from what is past,
No happiness is there for me,

And troubles ever come too fast.
Said Time, "No comfort have I brought,
The past to him's one painful thought."

OLD AGE.

Somehow the flowers seem different now,
The Daisies dimmer than of old;
There's fewer blossoms on the bough,

The Hawthorn buds look gray and cold;
The Pansies wore another dye

When I was young—when I was young! There's not that blue about the sky

Which every way in those days hung. There's nothing now looks as it "ought." Said Time, "The change is in thy thought."

I think of thee at morn, when glisten
The tearful dew-drops on the grass;

I think of thee at eve, and listen,

When the low, whispering breezes pass.

Miller.

E. R. H.

And thou, so rich in gentle names, appealing
To hearts that own our nature's common lot;
Thou, styled by sportive Fancy's better feeling
A Thought, the Heart's-Ease, and Forget-me-not.
Barton.

Daisy....Innocence.

Shakspeare speaks of the Daisy as the flower
Whose white investments figure innocence;

and succeeding poets have generally used it as the image of that pure quality. Fable informs us that the Daisy owes its origin to Belides, one of the Dryads, who were supposed to preside over meadows and pastures. While dancing on the turf with Ephigeus, whose suit she encouraged, she attracted the admiration of Vertumnus, the deity who presided over orchards; and, to escape from him, she was transformed into the humble flower, the Latin name of which is Bellis. The ancient English name of the flower was Day's Eye, of which Daisy is a corruption. In Ossian's poems, the Daisy is called the flower of the new-born—most expressive of innocence.

When smitten by the morning ray,
I see thee rise alert and gay,
Then, cheerful flower! my spirits play
With kindred gladness:

And when, at dark, by dews opprest,
Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest

Hath often eased my pensive breast
Of careful sadness.

Wordsworth.

She dwells amid the world's dark ways,

Pure as in childhood's hours;

And all her thoughts are poetry,

And all her words are flowers.

Mrs. M. E. Hewitt.

'Twas when the world was in its prime,
When meadows green and woodlands wild
Were strewn with flowers, in sweet spring-time,
And everywhere the Daisies smiled.
When undisturbed the ring-doves cooed,

While lovers sang each other's praises,
As in embowered lanes they wooed,

Or on some bank white o'er with Daisies: While Love went by with muffled feet, Singing, "The Daisies they are sweet." Unfettered then he roamed abroad,

And as he willed it past the hours— Now lingering idly by the road,

Now loitering by the wayside flowers; For what cared he about the morrow?

Too young to sigh, too old to fear—
No time had he to think of sorrow,

Who found the Daisies everywhere;
Still sang he, through each green retreat,
"The Daisies they are very sweet."
With many a maiden did he dally,

Like a glad brook that turns away—
Here in, there out, across the valley,
With every pebble stops to play;
Taking no note of space nor time,
Through flowers, the banks adorning,