Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows, 



Wild bramble of the brake! 

 So put forth thou thy small white rose, 



I love it for his sake. 

 Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow 



O'er all the fragrant bowers, 

 Thou need' St not be ashamed to shew 



Thy satin-threaded flowers; 

 For dull the eye, the heart is dull, 



That cannot feel how fair, 

 Amid all beauty beautiful 



Thy tender blossoms are! 

 How delicate thy gauzy frill ! 



How rich thy branchy stem! 

 « # * * • 



The primrose to the grave is gone; 



The hawthorn flower is dead; 

 The violet by the moss'd grey stone 



Hath laid her weary head; 

 But thou, wild bramble, back dost bring, 



In all their beauteous power, 

 The fresh green days of life's fair spring, 



And boyhood's blossomy hour. 

 Scorn' d bramble of the brake ! once more 



Thou bid'st me be a boy. 

 To gad with thee the woodlands o'er. 



In freedom and in joy. 



BBENEZER ELLIOTT, To the Bramble Flower. 



