THE WILD FLOWERS. 



BY P. J. SMITH. 



SWEET wilding tufts, that 'mid the waste 



Your lowly buds expand ; 

 Though by no sheltering walls embraced, 



Nor trained by beauty's hand : 

 The primal flowers which grace your stems, 



Bright as the dahlias shine, 

 Found thus, like unexpected gems, 



To lonely hearts like mine. 



'Tis a quaint thought, and yet, perchance, 



Sweet blossoms, ye are sprung 

 From flowers that over Eden once 



Their pristine fragrance flung ; 

 That drank the dews of Paradise, 



Beneath the starlight clear ; 

 Or caught from Eve's dejected eyes 



Her first repentant tear. 



17 193 



