rOETEY OF FLOWEES. 
133 
Whose simple sweets with curious skill 
The frugal cottage dames distil, 
Nor envy France the vine; 
W'hile many a festal cup they fill 
Of Britain’s homely wine. 
Perhaps from nature’s earliest May, 
Imperishable ’midst decay, _ 
Thy self-renewing race 
Have breathed their balmy lives away. 
In this neglected place. 
And oh ! till nature’s final doom 
Here unmolested may they bloottl, 
From scythe and plough secure; 
This bank t’neir cradle and their tomb. 
While earth and skies endure ! 
THE WILD FLOWER. 
Sweet wilding tufts that ’mid the waste, 
Your lowly buds expand : 
Though by no sheltering walls embraced. 
Nor trained by beauty’s hand; 
The primal flowers which grace your stems 
Bright as the dahlia’s shine, 
Found thus like unexpected gems. 
To lonely hearts like mine. 
