DAISY.

(Innocence.)

"Whose white investments figure innocence."-SHAKSPEARE.

HE flower which, next to the rose, appears to have received the most attention from the poets is the Daisy.

Formerly it was termed the "e'e of daie," and under that name Chaucer speaks of it.

According to the classic account, this little flower owed its origin to Belides, one of the dryads, the nymphs who presided over woodlands. It is fabled that whilst this damsel was dancing with her favoured suitor, Ephigeus, she attracted the attention of Vertumnus, the guardian deity of orchards and it was in order to shelter her from his pursuit that she was transformed into Ballis, or the daisy—the “day's eye," as our old poets call it-the flower of faithful love, which opens and closes with the

sun.

It is called in French la Marguerite, or pearl.

The unhappy Margaret of Anjou chose it as her device; and when she reigned a beauty and crowned queen, the nobles of England wore wreaths of it, or had it embroidered on their robes.

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Marguerite de Valois, the friend of Erasmus and Calvin the Marguerite of Marguerites-also adopted this flower as her device; and it was more appropriate certainly to the princess who withdrew from the glitter of courts to study her Bible than to the ambitious Lancastrian queen of England.

THE DAISIE.

CHAUCER.

DAISIE of light! very ground of comfort!
The sunnis doughtir ye hight, as I rede,
For when he westrith, farwell your disport;
By your nature anone, right for pure drede
Of the rude Night, that with his boistous wede
Of derkenesse shadowith our hemisphere,
Then closin ye, my liv'is ladie dere.

Daunying the daie unto his kind resort,
And Phoebus your fethir with his stremes rede
Adorneth the morrowe, consuming the sort
Of mistie cloudes, that wouldin ovirlede.
True humble hertis with ther mistie hede,
Nere comfort adaies, when your eyin clere
Disclose and sprede, my liv'is ladie dere.

Je vouldray; but the grete God disposeth
And makith casuell by His providence
Soche thing as mannis frele wit purposeth,
All for the best, if that your conscience

Not grutche it, but in humble pacience
It receve; for God saith withoutin fable,
A faithfull herte evir is acceptable.

From "A Godely Balade."

TO THE DAISY.

WORDSWORTH.

BRIGHT flower! whose home is everywhere,
Bold in maternal Nature's care,

And all the long year through the heir
Of joy or sorrow;

Methinks that there abides in thee

Some concord with humanity,

Given to no other flower I see
The forest thorough!

Is it that man is soon deprest?

A thoughtless thing? who, once unblest,
Does little on his memory rest,

Or on his reason,

And thou wouldst teach him how to find
A shelter under every wind,

A hope for times that are unkind,
And every season?

Thou wander'st the wide world about,
Uncheck'd by pride or scrupulous doubt,
With friends to greet thee, or without,
Yet pleased and willing;

Meek, yielding to the occasion's call,
And all things suffering from all,
Thy function apostolical

In peace fulfilling.

TO THE DAISY.

WORDSWORTH.

IN youth from rock to rock I went,
From hill to hill, in discontent
Of pleasure high and turbulent,

Most pleased when most uneasy;
But now my own delights I make,
My thirst at every rill can slake,
And Nature's love of thee partake,
Her much-loved daisy !

Thee Winter in the garland wears
That thinly decks his few grey hairs;
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs,
That she may sun thee;

Whole summer-fields are thine by right;
And Autumn, melancholy wight!
Doth in thy crimson head delight,

When rains are on thee.

Be violets in their secret mews

The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose; Proud be the rose, with rains and dews Her head impearling;

Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim,
Yet hast not gone without thy flame;
Thou art indeed, by many a claim,
The poet's darling.

If to a rock from rain we fly,
Or some bright day of April sky,
Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie
Near the green holly,

And wearily at length should fare:
He needs but look about, and there
Thou art a friend at hand to scare
His melancholy.

A hundred times, by rock or bower,
Ere thus I have lain couched an hour,
Have I derived from thy sweet power
Some apprehension;

Some steady love; some brief delight;
Some memory that had taken flight;
Some chime of fancy, wrong or right;
Or strong invention.

If stately passions in me burn,

And one chance look to thee should turn,

I drink out of an humble urn

A lowlier pleasure;

The homely sympathy that heeds

The common life, our nature breeds;

A wisdom fitted to the needs

Of hearts at leisure.