Unlike to those I’d left, it chose 
A lowly bed, “ yet blithe as rose 
That in the king’s own garden grows,” 
It sipp’d the morning dew. 
I paused, the sky became o’ercast, 
And the chill rain fell thick and fast,— 
How fared that blossom now ? 
With head on its slight stem inclined, 
Smiling it met both rain and wind, 
As if to teach me it design’d 
’Neath sorrow’s storm to bow. 
Its name I knew, and deem’d full well, 
From its low home in ruggetj dell 
It might this hint afford, 
That, whilst exotics only flower 
In cultured soil and shelter’d bower, 
Heartsease may be alike the dower 
Of peasant and of lord. 
Yea, brows may ache which wear a crown. 
And palace walls give back the groan 
Of breaking hearts, I ween, 
