32 WILD FLOWERS. 
Flowers. 
The impatient Morn, 
Flushed with the vernal gale, calls forth, “ Arise! 
To trace the hills, the meads, where thousand dyes 
The ground adorn, 
While the dew sparkles yet within the violet’s 
eyes:” 
And when the day 
In golden slumber sinks, with accent sweet 
Mild Evening comes to lure the willing feet 
With her to stray, 
Where’er the bashful flowers the observant eye may 
greet. 
Near the moist brink 
Of music-loving streams they ever keep, 
And often in the lucid fountains peep; 
Oft, laughing, drink 
Of the mad torrent’s spray, perched near the thun¬ 
dering steep. 
