88 
CoIumStnf. 
’Tis Folly’s flower, that homely one; 
That universal guest 
Makes every garden hut a type 
Of every human breast; 
For though ye tend both mind and bower. 
There’s still a nook for Folly’s flower. 
Then gather roses for the bride, 
Twine them in her bright hair, 
But, ere the wreath be done—oh! let 
The Columbine be there. 
For rest ye sure that follies dwell 
In many a heart that loveth well. 
Gather ye laurels for the brow 
Of every prince of song! 
For all, to whom philosophy 
And wisdom do belong. 
But ne’er forget to intertwine 
A flower or two of Columbine. 
Forget it not;—for even they, 
The oracles of earth, 
Mid all their wealth of golden thoughts, 
Their wisdom and their worth, 
Sometimes play pranks beneath the sky, 
Would scarce become e’en such as I! 
Weave ye an armful of that plant, 
Choosing the darkest flowers, 
With that red, blood-dipped wreath ye bring 
The devastating powers 
