128 MOUSE-EAR HAWK WEED. 



My haunt is not where the roses bloom, 

 And the nightingale warbles her tale. 



To cheer the lone depth of the forest gloom, 

 Is mine, or the stone-clad vale. 



There are dwellers thine eye rarely heedeth. 

 That the blasts of the heath must endure ; 



They have fears all, or wants all, which needeth 

 A shelter or home on the moor. 



Then think not the heath-loving flower. 

 Has been placed by her Maker in vain. 



The weak creatures called forth by His power • 

 It is mine, through His will, to sustain. 



