86 LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
And ye, whose lowlier pride 
In sweet seclusion seems to shrink from view, 
You of the valley named, no longer hide 
Your blossoms, meet to twine the brow of purest bride. 
Barton. 
Fair flower, that, lapt in lowly glade, 
Dost hide beneath the greenwood shade, 
Than whom the vernal gale 
None fairer wakes on branch or spray, 
Our England's Lily of the May, 
Our Lily of the Vale. 
Art thou that " Lily of the field," 
Which, when the Saviour sought to shield 
The heart from blank despair, 
He showed to our mistrustful kind, 
An emblem of the thoughtful mind, 
Of God's paternal care ? 
Not thus, I trow ; for brighter shine 
To the warm skies of Palestine 
Those children of the East. 
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But not the less, sweet spring-tide's flower, 
Dost thou display thy Maker's power, 
His skill and handiwork : 
Our western valleys' humbler child, 
Where, in green nook of woodland wild, 
Thy modest blossoms lurk. 
What though nor care nor art be thine 
The loom to ply, the thread to twine, 
Yet born to bloom and fade. 
