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TO THE BRAMBLE 



THY fruit full well the schoolboy knows, 



Wild bramble of the brake ! 

 So put thou forth 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 show 



Thy satin-threaded flowers. 

 For dull the eye, the heart is dull 



That cannot feel how fair, 10 



Amid all beauty beautiful, 



Thy tender blossoms are. 



How delicate thy gauzy frill ! 



How rich thy branchy stem ! 

 How soft thy voice when woods are still, 



And thou sing'st hymns to them, 

 While silent showers are falling slow, 



And, 'mid the general hush, 

 A sweet air lifts the little bough, 



Lone-whispering thro' the bush ! 20 



The primrose to the grave is gone, 



The hawthorn flower is dead, 

 The violet by the mossed gray 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. 



