J76 
WILD FLOWERS. 
We have thus endeavored to defend our 
beloved friends, the flowers, from the charge of 
disdaining to serve , by showing the true service 
which they render to man ; and now, let us 
give a companion picture to the one above ;— 
it is from “ Nina Sforza — 
“ I late was passing by a poet’s door, 
Who, on his window-sill, with wasted care, 
Had placed a hungry shrub for light—a want 
That crowded quarter miserly supplied; 
A wild field-rose it was; it may be slippe 
As sweet remembrance of his wanderings ; 
’Twas withering fast, yet, ’midst its dry, curl’d leaves. 
One sickly bud had struggled into bloom. 
That bud, so pale, so common, fix’d my step; 
I thought it priceless, and, except for shame. 
Had very gladly stolen away a leaf; 
I, whose court-life had ever been-perfumed 
With every rarest flower that we know. 
Now, think you, ’twas the rose-bud that I saw ? 
Believe it not! It was the poet’s soul 
Diffused by mental magic, over all 
Which environed the proud connection of his name. 
It. Z. 8. Troughton. 
“ Better,” says ourmost delightful of essayists; 
Leigh Hunt, ee better hang a wild rose over the 
toilet, than nothing. The eye that looks in the 
