Floral Poetry. 
*£P 
I 10 
THE GILLYFLOWER. 
r- 
YY OW gaily on yon ruined wall 
The Gillyflower lifts its head; 
Whilst crumbling masses frequent fall, 
And leave its fibrous roots displayed. 
Sweet flower ! thou seek’st not to unfold 
Thy charms ’midst fashion’s cultured train, 
But tint’st the rifted mound with gold, 
Where solitude and silence reign. 
But ah ! where now thy waving bloom 
Fills with rich fragrance all the air, 
Far lovelier charms have met their doom, 
In cloistral glooms and blank despair. 
There buds of beauty, genius, worth, 
Ere they could blossom oft were pent; 
Though born to scatter bliss o’er earth, 
A cheerless, fruitless life they spent. 
Torn from the world and social ties, 
In Superstition’s depths immersed, 
With none their gifts to scan or prize, 
And heaven’s decree in them reversed. 
Not such, sweet flower, thy happier lot, 
Thy humble end not rendered vain; 
By nature destined for the spot, 
Thou gladd’st the wide surrounding plain. 
Thomas Gillet. 
