THE TRAILING ARBUTUS, OR MAT-FLOWER. 
When hatli May’s sun or April’s softening shower, 
Warm’d into life a less assuming dower 
Than simple me, in pale pink vesture drest. 
While close to earth my lowly head finds rest? 
But yet, enough might my experience speak. 
To tinge with pride a more expanded cheek. 
Ere art or science on this land had smiled, 
When these fair fields were hut a forest wild. 
My little race of blossoms, pure and sweet. 
Were press’d beneath the dusky Indian’s feet. 
And when, with weary hearts, the Pilgrim band 
Eaised their first prayer from Plymouth’s frozen strand., 
I lay for Spring’s return, their eyes to greet. 
Concealed from view by nature’s winding-sheet. 
I was the fiower their waiting eyes first found. 
Exhaling my faint perfume from the ground; 
And with my little downy stalk I crept 
On the first grave o’er which their fond hearts wept. 
They hailed, as promise of a brighter hour. 
My blushing face, and call’d me their Mat-Flowee. 
As then I smiled, with early May dews wet. 
In dark-browed maidens’ glossy locks of jet, * 
I now am wreathed amid the sunny curls. 
Or braided locks of sweet Hew England girls. 
I waiting stand, when April’s parting ray 
Is lost in darkness, and the blushing day 
Looks forth on groups of lovely maidens straying 
O’er groves and fields, with happy hearts, “a Maying;” 
With their gay shouts, the budding forests ring, 
And me they hail, the first sweet fiower of Spring. 
( 3 ) 
