WILD FLOWERS. 
Art thou that “ lily of the field,” 
Which, when the Saviour sought to shield 
The heart from blank despair, 
He showed to our mistrustful kind 
An emblem to the thoughtful mind 
Of God’s paternal care? 
But not the less, sweet springtide’s flower, 
Dost thou display the Maker’s power, 
His skill and handiwork, 
Our western valleys humbler child; 
Where in green nook of woodland wild, 
Thy modest blossoms lurk. 
What though nor care nor art be thine, 
The loom to ply, the thread to twine; 
Yet, bom to bloom and fade, 
Thee, too, a lovelier robe arrays, 
Than ere in Israel’s brightest days 
Her wealthiest king arrayed. 
Of thy twin leaves th’ embowered screen 
Which wraps thee in thy shroud of green; 
Thy Eden-breathing smell; 
