J U N E. 



HOLY FLOWERS. 



Woe 's me how knowledge makes forlorn ; 



The forest and the field are shorn 



Of their old growth, the holy flowers ; 



Or if they spring, they are not ours. 



In ancient days the peasant saw 



Them growing in the woodland shaw, 



And bending to his daily toil, 



Beheld them deck the leafy soil ; 



They sprang around his cottage door ; 



He saw them on the heathy moor ; 



Within the forest's twilight glade, 



Where the wild-deer its covert made ; 



In the green vale remote and still, 



And gleaming on the ancient hill. 



The days are distant now, gone by 



With the old times of minstrelsy, 



When all unblest with written lore, 



Were treasured up traditions hoar ; 



And each still lake and mountain lone 



Had a wild legend of its own ; 



And hall, and cot, and valley-stream 



Were hallowed by the minstrel's dream. 



Then musing in the woodland nook, 

 Each flower was as a written-book, 

 Recalling, by memorial quaint, 

 The holy deed of martyred saint ; 

 The patient faith, which, unsubdued, 

 Grew mightier through fire and blood. 

 One blossom, 'mid its leafy shade 

 The virgin's purity pourtrayed ; 



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