153 
Why from thy lowly haunts 
Art thou now call’d, to have a place and name 
’Mid buds whose beauty fancy’s eye enchants, 
Whose fragrance puts thy scentless leaves to shame ? 
’T is that, though suffering ill, 
Yea, spurn’d and trodden by each passer by, 
Blossom and berry dost thou proffer still, 
As all unmindful of the injury. 
Hardest of lessons this 
To suffer wrong with meekness — few, how few, 
The hand which smites unjustly stoop to kiss, 
Or blessings on their foemen’s pathway strew. 
Then welcome, lowly flower ! 
Welcome amid the fragrant and the gay; 
For which of all the buds in summer bower 
Can fitter lesson to proud man convey ? 
