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cultivated kinds suit better the romance and the allusions of the poets.
The Lily of the Vale (for, despite the decision of botanists, that our modest little darling cannot claim kindred with the illustrious Lily family, a Lily—the Lily, we still fondly call it) is a native of our own fair plains and bosky dells; indeed, from the chill air of Lapland to the genial sunshine of bright beaming Italy, the fragile and fragrant Lily of the Valley may be found. In the woods of Eileriede, near Hanover, they grow in the most luxuriant profusion, and quite a festival is held during their time of flowering. Every house has a bouquet of
"The small-leaved, lesser Lilies,
Shading, like detected light,
Their little green-tipt lamps of white;"
and the woods are crowded with parties celebrating this floral anniversary.
We might almost believe the Lilies must sometimes blush in surprise and anger (if such gentle creatures could be imagined guilty of human feelings) at some of the quaint and extravagant comparisons which Poets of the olden time used to draw between the charms of their demi-goddesss ladye loves, and this fairest of all fair flowers, Hear the following affirmation of an anonymous gentleman, who wrote in the year 1658, "to his Mistresse:"—
I'll tell you whence the rose did first grow red,
And whence the Lilly whiteness borrowed.
You blushed; and then the rose with red was dight,
