PERIWINKLE.

Vinca Minor.

LANGUAGE-EARLY FRIENDSHIP.

THANKS to my stars, I have not ranged about
The wilds of life ere I could find a friend;
Nature first pointed out my brother to me,
And early taught me, by her sacred force,
To love thy person ere I knew thy merits,
Till what was instinct grew up into friendship.
Ours has severest virtue for its basis,
And such a friendship ends not but with life.

Friendship is no plant of hasty growth;
Though planted in esteem's deep-fixéd soil,
The gradual culture of kind intercourse
Must bring it to perfection.

True happiness

ADDISON.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

Consists not in the multitude of friends,

But in the worth and choice; nor would I have Virtue a popular regard pursue :

Let them be good that love me, though but few.

JONSON.

A friend is gold; if true, he'll never leave thee; Yet both, without a touchstone, may deceive thee.

RANDOLPH.

PETUNIA.

Petunia Variegatus.

LANGUAGE-ELEGANCE WITHOUT PRIDE.

THOU art not proud, though beauty's gifts,
Her fairest, richest gifts, are thine;
And on thy brow, - the throne of thought,

Like gleams of light, thy tresses shine.

Still unassuming are thy ways,

Still kindly words hast thou for all;
The lowly bless thy sunny smile

The same in cottage as in hall.

In peasant life we might have known
As fair a face, as sweet a tone;
But village notes could ne'er supply
That rich and varied melody.
And ne'er in cottage maid was seen

The easy dignity of mien,

Claiming respect, yet waiving state,

D. H. JAQUES.

That marks the daughters of the great.

So gently blending courtesy and art

SCOTT

That wisdom's lips seemed borrowing friendship's heart.

O. W. HOLMES.

Where the meekness of self-knowledge veileth the front

of self-respect,

There look thou for the man whose name none can know

but they will honor.

TUPPER.

PHLOX.

Phlox Maculata.

LANGUAGE-OUR SOULS ARE UNITED.

My bride,

My wife, my life! O, we will walk this world,
Yoked in all exercise of noble aim,

And so through those dark gates across the wild,
That no man knows.

TENNYSON.

There are two hearts, whose movements thrill

In unison so closely sweet,

That pulse to pulse, responsive still,

They both must heave - or cease to beat.

There are two souls, whose equal flow

In gentle streams so calmly run,

That when they part

They part? Ah, no!

BARTON.

They cannot part — those souls are one.

Once my soul was fondly plighted

To a holy one of earth

Like two music notes united,

Notes that severed in their birth.
Yet not severed we, though parted,
Still in truth our souls are one,
Though on earth the gentle-hearted
Hath her blesséd mission done.

DUGANNE.

PINK, CHINA.

Dianthus Variegatus.

LANGUAGE-AVERSION.

IF I am fair, 'tis for myself alone;

I do not wish to have a sweetheart near me, Nor would I call another's heart my own,

Nor have a gallant lover to revere me; For surely I would plight my faith to none,

Though many an amorous wit might jump to hear me; For I have heard that lovers prove deceivers, When once they find that maidens are believers.

Do I not in plainest truth

MICHEL ANGELO.

Tell you I do not, nor I cannot, love you?

SHAKSPEARE.

Nay, if she love me not, I care not for her:
Shall I look pale because the maiden blooms?
Or sigh because she smiles on others?
Not I, by Heaven! I hold my peace too dear,
To let it, like the plume upon her cap,
Shake at each nod that her caprice shall dictate.

OLD PLAY. ANTIQUARY.

To cheer thy sickness, watch thy health-
Partake, but never waste thy wealth
Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by,
And lighten half thy poverty!

All day, like some sweet bird, content to sing
In its small cage, she moveth to and fro;
And ever and anon will upward spring

BYRON.

To her sweet lips, fresh from the fount below,
The murmured melody of pleasant thought,
Light household duties, evermore inwrought
With pleasant fancies of one trusting heart,
That lives but in her smile, and ever turns
To be refreshed where one pure altar burns;
Shut out from hence the mockery of life,

Thus liveth she content, the meek, fond, trusting wife.

MRS. E. OAKES SMITH.

Thou wast my nurse in sickness, and my comforter in

health;

So gentle and so constant, when our love was all our

wealth;

Thy voice of music soothed me, love, in each desponding

hour,

As heaven's honey-dew consoles the bruised and broken

flower.

ALBERT PIKE.