TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. 



BY E. ELLIOTT. 



Thy fruit full well the school-boy knows, 



Wild Bramble of the brake ! 

 So, put thou forth thy small white Rose ; 



I love it for his sake. 

 Though Woodbine's flaunt, and Roses glow 



O'er all the fragrant bowers. 

 Thou need'st not be ashamed to show 



Thy satin-threaded flowers ; 

 For dull the eye, the heart is dull 



That cannot feel how fair, 

 Amid all beauty beautiful, 



Thy tender blossoms are ! 

 How delicate thy gauzy full ! 



How rich thy branchy stem ! 

 How soft thy voice, when woods are still, 



And thou sing'st hymns to them ! 

 While silent showers are falling slow, 



And mid the general hush, 

 A sweet air lifts the little bough, 



Lone whispering through the bush ! 



