THE 



POESY OF FLOWERS. 



THE SWEET BRIER. 



OUR sweet, autumnal western-scented wind, 

 Robs of its odors none so sweet a flower, 

 In all the blooming waste it left behind, 

 As that the Sweet-brier yields it ; and the shower 

 \\Yts not a rose that buds in beauty's bower 

 One hnlf so lovely; yet it grows along 

 The poor girl's pathway, by the poor man's door, 

 Such nre the simple folk it dwells among; 

 And humble as the bud, so humble be the song. 



I love it, for it takes its untouched stand, 

 Not in the vase that sculptors decorate; 

 Its sweetness all is of my native land; 

 And e'en its fragrant leaf has not its mate 

 Among the perfumes which the rich and great 

 Buy from the odors of the spicy East. 

 You love your flowers and plants; and will you hale 

 The little four-leaved rose that I love best, 

 That freshest will awake, and sweetest go to rest? 



/. O. C. Brainard. 

 20* 



