'the ale-cellars of the Iotun,
Which is called Brimir.'

The daisy (Saxon _Daeges ege_) has often been cited as fragrant with
poesy. It is the _Day's Eye_: we remember Chaucer's affectionate lines:

'Of all the floures in the mede
Than love I most those floures of white and rede,
Such that men called _daisies_ in our toun,
To them I have so great affection.'

Nor is he alone in his love for the

_'Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flouer.'_

An odoriferous-enough (etymologic) bouquet could we cull from the names
of Flora's children. What a beauty is there in the 'primrose,' which is
just the _prime_-rose; in the 'Beauty of the Night' and the 'Morning
Glory,' except when a pompous scientific terminology, would convert it
into a _convolvulus_! So, too, the 'Anemone' ([Greek: anemos], the
wind-flower), into which it is fabled Venus changed her Adonis. What a
story of maiden's love does the 'Sweet William' tell; and how many
charming associations cluster around the 'Forget-me-not!' Again, is
there not poetry in calling a certain family of minute crustacea, whose
two eyes meet and form a single round spot in the centre of the head,
'Cyclops'--([Greek: kyklops], circular-eyed)?

And if any one thinketh that there cannot be poetry even in the dry
technicalities of science, let him take such an expression as 'coral,'
which, in the original Greek, [Greek: koralion], signifies a _sea
damsel_; or the chemical 'cobalt,' 'which,' remarks Webster, 'is said to
be the German _Kobold_, a goblin, the demon of the mines; so called by
miners, because cobalt was troublesome to miners, and at first its value
was not known.' Ah! but these terms were created before _Science_, in
its rigidity, had taught us the _truth_ in regard to these matters. Yes!
and fortunate is it for us that we still have words, and ideas
clustering around these words, that have not yet been chilled and
exanimated by the frigid touch of an empirical knowledge. For

'Still the heart doth need a language, still
Doth the old instinct bring back the old names.'

And may benign heaven deliver us from those buckram individuals who
imagine that Nature is as narrow and rigid as their own contracted
selves, and who would seek to array her in their own exquisite
bottle-green bifurcations and a _gilet a la mode_! These characters
always put us in mind of the statues of Louis XIV, in which he is
represented as Jupiter or Hercules, nude, with th