82 
POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
MY HOME BENEATH THE SYCAMORE. 
How oft doth memory linger near, 
A spot which to my heart is dear; 
While fancy’s vision brightly shows 
A rippling stream which gently flows 
Along a deep and flowery vale, 
Where bloom the lilies pure and pale, 
Where stands upon its pebbly shore, 
My home beneath the sycamore. 
But 0, how dear thy native scenes. 
Thy running brooks and purling streams ; 
While now their tinkling eddies run, 
And dance and twinkle in the sun. 
Where the wild wood bird’s stirring note 
Amid the scene so soothing float; 
While the gay lark above did soar 
My home beneath the sycamore. 
When twilight soft its rays has lent 
To gild the glorious firmament, 
I’ve strayed along the mountain side. 
Where swells beneath the rolling tide, 
’Mid brook, and bird, and fragrant trees. 
With all their wondrous power to please, 
Oft memory sweetly lingers o’er 
My home beneath the sycamore. 
