192 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
And wearily at length should fare ; 
He need hut look about, and there 
Thou art ! — a friend at hand, to scare 
His melancholy. i 
A hundred times, by rock or bower 
Ere thus I have lain couched an hour. 
Have I derived from thy sweet power 
Some apprehension ; 
Some steady love; some brief delight; 
Some memory that had taken flight; 
Some charm of fancy, wrong or right; 
Or stray invention. 
If stately passions in me burn, 
And one chance look to thee should turn, 
I drink out of an humble urn 
A lowlier pleasure; 
The homely sympathy that heeds, 
The common life our nature breeds 
A wisdom fitted to the needs 
Of hearts at leisure. 
When smitten by the morning ray, 
I see thee rise, alert and gay, 
Then, cheerful flower ! my spirits play 
With kindred gladness; 
And when at dusk by dews oppressed, 
Thou sink’s!, the image of thy rest 
Hath often eased my pensive breast 
Of careful sadness. 
