WILD FLOWERS. 
101 
An Extract. 
Even in the depth 
Of hot July the glades were cool; the grass 
Yellow and parch’d elsewhere, grew long and fresh, 
Shading wild strawberries and violets, 
Or the lark’s nest; and overhead the dove 
Had her lone dwelling, paying for her home 
With melancholy songs; and scarce a beach 
Was there without a honeysuckle link’d 
Around, with its red tendrils and pink dowers; 
Or girdled by a briar rose, whose buds 
Yield fragrant harvest for the honey bee. 
The Lily of the Valley. 
Fair dower, that lapt in lowly glade 
Dost hide beneath the greenwood shade, 
Than whom the vernal gale 
None fairer wakes on bank or spray, 
Our England’s lily of the May, 
Our lily of the vale. 
