SC WILD FLOWERS. 
Amid all beauty beautiful, 
Thy tender blossoms are! 
How delicate thy gauzy frill! 
How rich thy branchy stem! 
How soft thy voice, when woods are still, 
And thou sing’st hymns to them; 
While Silent showers are falling slow, 
And ’mid the general hush, 
A sweet air lifts the little hough, 
Lone whispering through the bush! 
The primrose to the grave is gone; 
The hawthorn flower is dead; 
The violet by the moss’d gray stone 
Hath laid her weary head; 
But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring, 
In all their beauteous power, 
The fresh green days of life’s fair spring, 
And boyhood’s bloomy hour. 
Scorned bramble of the brake! once more 
Thou bid’st me be a hoy, 
To gad with thee the woodlands o’er, 
In freedom and in joy. 
