. In "Maud," he writes:

"Her feet have touched the meadows
And left the daisies rosy."

To Wordsworth, the poet of nature, the daisy seems perfectly
intelligible. Scattered throughout the lowly places, with
meekness it seems to shed beauty over its surroundings, and
compensate for gaudy vesture by cheerful contentment. Wordsworth
calls the daisy "the poet's darling," "a nun demure," "a little
Cyclops," "an unassuming commonplace of nature," and sums up its
excellences in a verse which may fitly conclude our attempt to
pluck a bouquet of fresh daisies from the poets:

"Sweet flower! for by that name at last,
When all my reveries are past,
I call thee, and to that cleave fast;
Sweet silent creature!
That breath'st with me in sun and air,
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair
My heart with gladness, and a share
Of thy meek nature!"

--_A.S. Isaacs_.

* * * * *

_COLERIDGE AS A PLAGIARIST._

SOMETHING CHILDISH BUT VERY NATURAL.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY 1798-99.

If I had but two little wings,
And were a little feathery bird,
To you I'd fly, my dear!
But thoughts like these are idle things,
And I stay here.

But in my sleep to you I fly:
I'm always with you in my sleep!
The world is all one's own.
But then one wakes, and where am I?
All, all alone.

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids,
So I love to wake ere break of day:
For though my sleep be gone,
Yet, while tis dark, one shuts one's lids,
And still dreams on.

Thus much for Coleridge. Now for his original:

"Were I a little bird,
Had I two wings of mine,
I'd fly to my dear;
But that can never be,
So I stay here.

"Though I am far from thee,
Sleeping I'm near to thee,
Talk with my dear;
When I awake again,
I am alone.

"Scarce there's an hour in the night
When sleep does not take its flight,
And I think of thee,
How many thousand times
Thou gav'st thy heart to me."

"This," says Mr. Bayard Taylor, in the _Notes_ to his translation
of _Faust_, "this is an old song of the people of Germany. Herder
published it in his _Volkslieder_, in 1779, but it was no doubt
familiar to Goethe in his childhood. The original melody, to
which it is still sung, is as simple and sweet as the words."

_AMONG THE PERUVIANS._

The extremes of civilization and barbarism are nea