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The Daisy.

There is a flower, a little flower,

With silver crest and golden eye, That welcomes every changing hour,

And weathers every sky.

The prouder beauties of the field

In gay but quick succession shine, Race after race their honours yield,

They flourish and decline.

But this small flower, to Nature dear,

While moons and stars their courses run, Wreathes the whole circle of the year,

Companion of the sun.

It smiles upon the lap of May,

To sultry August spreads its charms, Lights pale October on his way,

And twines December's armis.

The purple heath and golden broom

On moory mountains catch the gale; O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume,

The violet in the vale.

But this bold flow’ret climbs the hill,

Hides in the forest, haunts the glen, Plays on the margin of the rill,

Peeps round the fox's den.

Inest sua gratia parvis.

Parvulus in pratis flos est: nitor ardet ocelli

Aureus, argento purior albet apex : Ille vices horae dubias cuiusqve salutat,

Adspectumqve pati callet utrumqve Iovis.

Qvae magis eximiis decorat splendoribus agrum,

Florea gens celeri fulget abitqve vice: Stirps sequitur stirpem, flos flori fortior instat,

Qviqve in honore fuit nunc sine honore iacet.

Attamen haec florum Matri dilecta propago,

Cynthia dum cursum volvit et astra manent, Innectit foliis anni revolubilis orbem,

Et comes it rapidis solis ubiqve rotis.

In gremio ridet Maii dilecta voluptas,

Explicat Augusti sole calente decus ; Non alia Octobri lampas praelucet eunti,

Non alia cingi fronde December amat.

Montibus in solis splendescens captat erica

Flamen, et auratis lenta genista comis; Pascua odorato conspergunt lilia flatu,

Et violam in latebris concava vallis alit.

Flos tamen hic audax colles conscendit, opaco

Conditur in saltu, tesqva reducta tenet, Ludit ad inclusum praetexto margine rivum,

Vulpis et ante cavas exserit ora domos.

Within the garden's cultured round

It shares the sweet carnation's bed; And blooms on consecrated ground

In honour of the dead.

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The lambkin crops its crimson gem,

The wild bee murmurs on its breast, The blue-fly bends its pensile stem

Light o'er the sky-lark's nest.

'Tis Flora's page: in every place,

In every season, fresh and fair, It opens with perennial grace,

And blossoms everywhere.

On waste and woodland, rock and plain,

Its humble buds unheeded rise: The rose has but a summer-reign; The daisy never dies.


Das Wesen des Epigramms.

Bald ist das Epigramm ein Pfeil,

Trifft mit der Spike;
Ist bald ein Schwert,

Trifft mit der Schärfe ;
Ist manchmal auch die Griechen liebten's so-
Ein klein' Gemäld, ein Strahl, gesandt
Zum Brennen nicht, nur zum Erleuchten.


Qva variis cultura replet splendoribus hortos,

Non alia, fragrans ac rosa, parte viget; Gaudet et exiguo sanctos decorare recessus

Munere, ne functis debitus absit honor.

Puniceum teneris calycem depascitur agna

Dentibus; in gremio fulva susurrat apis ; Musca laborantem gracili sub pondere culmum

Flectit, ubi parvam fingit alauda domum.

Gemma, deae famulata suae, qvocumqve sub axe,

Qvolibet innascens pulcra recensqve solo, Pandit inexhaustos anno redeunte nitores :

Exigua nusqvam rus sine belle viret.

Per scopulos solumqve nemus perqve aeqvora campi

Illa levat tenerum vix bene visa caput. Non nisi in aestivo regnat rosa lumine solis; Bellis habet domita morte perenne decus.

G. D.

Epigramma quale sit.

Nunc Epigramma ferit figentis more sagittae;

Nunc acie, gladii more secantis, agit: Nunc, ut apud Graecos, qvo lumine picta tabella, Vel iubar, inradiat nec tamen urit idem.




It is the day of Martelmas;
Cups of ale should freely pass.
What though winter has begun
To push down the summer sun ?
To our fire we can betake,
And enjoy the crackling brake,
Never heeding winter's face
On the day of Martelmas.

Some do the city now frequent,
Where costly shows and merriment
Do wear the vapourish evening out
With interlude and revelling rout,
Such as did pleasure England's queen,
When here her royal grace was seen;
Yet will they not this day let pass,
The merry day of Martelmas.

When the daily sports be done,
Round the market-cross they run,
Prentice lads and gallant blades
Dancing with their gamesome maids;
Till the beadle, stout and sour,
Shakes his bell, and calls the hour;
Then farewell lad and farewell lass
To the merry night of Martelmas.

Martelmas shall come again,
Spite of wind and snow and rain;
But many a strange thing must be done,
Many a cause be lost and won,

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