HEATHER LAYS. 



To a Wild Heath Flower 



Sweet floweret ! from Nature's indulgence thou'rt cast, 

 Thy home's on the cold heath, thy nurse is the blast, 

 No shrub spreads its branches to shelter thy form, 

 Thou'rt shook by the winds, and thou'rt bent by the 



storm; 



But the bird of the moor on thy substance is fed, 

 And thou giv'st to the hare of the mountain a bed ; 

 In youth, from the cold winds thou'lt grant them a 



space, 



And in age, when the fowler's at war with their race ; 

 The winds may assail thee, the tempest may rage, 

 They nature is proof to the war which they wage; 

 Thou'lt smile in the conflict, and blossoms unfold, 

 Where the nurslings of favor would shrink from the 



cold; 



Though rugged and sterile the seat of thy birth, 

 Simplicity formed thee of beauty and worth. 

 Remain, then, sweet blossom, the pride of the moor, 

 In loneliness flourish, unpamper'd and pure 

 Expand in the tempest, and bloom on the brow, 

 An emblem of sweet independence art thou; 

 And the soul who beholds thee unhurt in the strife, 

 Shall learn to contend with the troubles of life; 

 And when the cold wind of adversity's felt, 

 And the shafts of affliction are ruthlessly dealt, 

 His spirit, unbroken, shall rise to the last, 

 And his virtues shall open and bloom in the blast, 

 And his joys shall be sweet when the storm is at rest, 

 And the sunbeam of glory shall play on his breast. 



John Jones. 



