TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. 103 



The Primrose to the grave is gone ; 

 The Hawthorn flower is dead ; 

 The Violet by the moss'd gray stone 



Hath laid her wearied head ; 

 But thou Wild Bramble ! back dost bring, 



In all their beauteous power, 

 The first green days of life's fair spring, 



And boyhood's blossomy hour. 

 Scorn'd Bramble of the brake ! once more 



Thou bid'st me be a boy, 

 To gad with thee the woodlands o'er. 



In Ireedom and in joy. 



