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SONGS OF THE FLOWERS, 
‘¢ Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less 
For flowering in the wilderness.” —Moore. 
Who loves not the Wallflower, pretty and gay ? 
Whose breath’s mild and sweet as the kiss of young May ; 
Whose colours are simple as village maid’s gown, 
Where yellow is chequered with streaks of deep brown. 
I bloom in the garden, field, dell, grove, and bower ; 
I bloom on grey rock ; oft on mouldering tower 
I wave my lone leaves to the night wind’s sad sigh, 
And I mourn as I think that thus all things shall die. 
Yet I love the old tow’r and its ivy-prankt wall 
More than bower of beauty by soft waterfall ; 
And the moss-ravelled stone, as it crumbles away, 
Though it leave less to love, do I love less? Oh! nay. 
And I love the churchyard, where the beautiful sleep ; 
And I deck the lone grave where the widow doth weep ; 
And my heart feels delight when she kisses my leaves, 
For I know that her sorrow some solace receives. 
And the poor man’s green plot, how I love to adorn ! 
There his children caress me at ev’ning and morn; 
And should I feel thirst, or but sun-weary look, 
Lo! they bring me fresh show’rs from the clear cooling brook. 
I have been in the palace, pavilion, and hall ; 
I have shone ’neath gold lamps in the beauty-throng’d ball ; 
And I’ve hung o’er the couch where affection lay dead, 
Till my leaves ’gan to wither upon the cold bed. 
Yet the untended couch I would rather bestrew 
With my leaves’ balmy odours when dripping with dew, 
Than shine in the ball-room ’neath rich censers’ glow, 
There beauty is false, and affection’s vain show. 
Still I love those green bow’rs which spring decks in her pride, 
And my rich-robed co-mates, though my garb they deride ; 
And I’m cheerful and gay, be it sunshine or storm— 
When their soft hearts are cold, my brown bosom is warm. 
Young Rose woos the day; the proud Tulip men’s eyes ; 
Daffodil and Anemone fair ladies’ sighs ; 
And the Cowslip delights in the daisy-starred lea ; 
Ah! the mouldering tow'r or grey ruin for me. 
You may smile at my choice; but when flowers decay, 
Who shall speak of their bloom when they’ve faded away ? 
Yonder time-braving tow’r will in gratitude tell 
How the Wallflower loy’d ’mid its ruins to dwell. 
