54 
THE MORAL OF FLOWERS. 
Unlike to those I’d left, it chose 
A lowly bed, “ yet blithe as rose 
That in the king’s own garden grows,” 
It sipp’d the morning dew. 
I paused, the sky became o’ercast, 
And the chill rain fell thick and fast, — 
How fared that blossom now ? 
With head on its slight stem inclined. 
Smiling: it met both rain and wind, 
As if to teach me it design’d 
’Neath sorrow’s storm to bow. 
Its name 1 knew, and deem’d full well, 
From its low home in rugged dell 
It might this hint afford, 
<D 
That, whilst exotics only flower 
In cultured soil and shelter’d bower, 
Heartsease may be alike the dower 
Of peasant and of lord. 
Yea, brows may ache which wear a crown, 
And palace walls give back the groan 
Of breaking hearts, I ween ; 
