172 
FLORAL POESY. 
For how my busy brain would dream, and how my 
heart would burn, 
Where gorse and heather flung their arms above the 
forest fern. 
% % * * * * * 
Who loved me then ? Oh ! those who were as gentle 
as sincere, 
Who never kissed my cheek so hard as when it owned a 
tear. 
Whom did I love ? Oh ! those whose faith I never had 
to doubt; 
Those who grew anxious at my sigh and smiled upon 
my pout. 
What did I crave ? The power to rove unquestioned 
at my will; 
Oh! wayward idler that I was !—perchance I am such 
still. 
What did I fear ? No chance or change, so that it did 
not turn 
My footstep from the moorland coast, the heather, and 
the fern. 
Methinks it was a pleasant time, those gipsy days of 
mine, 
When youth with rosy magic turned life’s waters into 
wine; 
But nearly all who shared those days have passed away 
from earth, 
Passed in their beauty and their prime, their happiness 
and mirth. 
So now, rich flowerets of the waste, I’ll sit and talk to 
ye, 
For memory’s casket, filled with gems, is opened by 
your key; 
