193 
Yet dear I hold thy sacred lore, and oft with curious 
eye 
Do trace the mystic characters which in thy bosom lie, 
Types of those fearful instruments of agony and scorn; 
The cross which bore the Lord of life, the nail, the 
twisted thorn. 
And now of many a cultured flower, and many a wilding 
spray 
IVe sung, but thou the fittest seem’st to grace my closing 
lay; 
Then come, and round my simple harp thy wreaths 
symbolic fling, 
Lest meaner theme again should wake its consecrated 
string. 
THE END. 
o 
