170 
FLORAL POESY. 
THE FUCHSIA. 
ANON. 
Beautiful child of a tropic sun, 
How hast thou been from thy far home won, 
To bloom in our chilly northern air, 
Where the frost may blight, or the wind may tear 
Dost thou not pine for thine own dear land, 
For its cloudless skies—for its zephyrs bland, 
For its graceful flowers of matchless hues, 
Bright as the dreams of an Eastern muse ? 
Dost thou not pine for the perfumed air, 
For the gorgeous birds that are hovering there ; 
For the starry skies, and the silver moon, 
And the grasshopper’s shrill and unchanging tune 
Doth thy modest head as meekly bend 
In thine own bright clime,—or doth exile lend 
To thy fragile stalk its drooping grace. 
Like the downcast look of a lovely face ? 
No ! thou would’st murmur, were language thine. 
It is not for these I appear to pine ; 
Nor for glorious flowers, nor cloudless skies. 
Nor yet for the plumage of rainbow dyes. 
The kindly care I have met with here— 
The dew that is soft as affection’s tear, 
Would have soothed, if sorrow had bent my head. 
And life and vigor around me shed. 
