MOUSE-EAR HAWKWEED. 127 



Ask me not, why alone in this wild wild spot, 



Where no blossoming roses smile, 

 My days glide on, and my lonely lot 



Seems strange in the sea-girt isle ! 



Rather seek to know, why a simple flower 

 Mid the stones of the heath must remain ; 



Where the winds are loud, and the pitiless shower 

 Beateth oft on the wide, wide plain. 



My lot is low, but the stones of the moor. 

 Were my cradle when life was young ; 



The dew bathed me oft in its fountain pure. 

 And the soft wind my lullaby sung. 



I am part of a whole, a link in the chain 



That bindeth creation together ; 

 The same dew, the same air, the same light must 

 sustain 



Man's life, as the brown mountain hether. 



No flower of the meadow, no herb of the field. 

 No tree from the wood might replace me ; 



My duty is small, yet the service I yield. 

 Is too great, for thy hand to displace me. 



