THE POESY OF FLOWERS. 237 



THE GROUND LAUREL. 



1 love thee, pretty nursling 



Of vernal sun and rain; 

 For thou art Flora's firstling, 



And leadest in her train. 



When far away I found thee, 



It was an April morn; 

 The chilling blast blew round thee, 



No bud had decked the thorn. 



And thou alone wert hiding 



The mossy rocks between, 

 *Vhere, just below them gliding, 



The Merrimack was seen. 



And while my hand was brushing 

 The scary leaves from thee, 



It seemed that thou were blushing, 

 To be disclosed to me. 



Thou didst reward my ramble 



By shining at my feet, 

 When, over brake and bramble, 



I sought thy lone retreat: 



As some sweet flower of pleasure 



Upon our path may bloom, 

 Mid rocks and thorns, that measure 



Our journey to the tomb. 



Mitt H. F. Gould. 



