32 HOLT FLOWERS. 



They sprung 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 o( minstrelsy ; 

 When all unblest with written lore, 

 Were treasured up traditions hoar ; 

 And each still lake and mountain lone, 

 Had a stern 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, tried through fire and blood. 

 One blossom, 'mid its leafy shade, 

 The virgin's purity portrayed ; 

 And one, with cup all crimson dyed, 

 Spoke of a Saviour crucified ; 



