THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 95 
THE WATCHER BY THE 
WAYSIDE. 
Never despair. 
The traveller in Switzerland a floweret oft 
may see, 
That richly by the wayside blooms, uncul¬ 
tured, wild and free. 
It lifts its modest little head, and turns its 
calm blue eye— 
Bright as the stars that peep at eve from 
out a clouded sky— 
With such a gay and cheerful glance to 
every passer-by. 
Not in the garden’s shelter’d nook is its fail- 
presence found, 
Where order smiles on every group, and 
sister-flowers abound ; 
Along the hot and dusty road, where all 
looks dry and bare. 
With glad contentedness it takes its lowly 
station there. 
And willingly its fragrance flings upon the 
summer air. 
