THE WILD FLOWERS. 
BY F. J. SMITH. 
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 dahlias shine, 
Found thus, like unexpected gems, 
To lonely hearts like mine. 
Tis a quaint thought, and yet, perchance, 
Sweet blossoms, ye are sprung 
From flowers that over Eden once 
Their pristine fragrance flung ;— 
That drank the dews of Paradise, 
Beneath the starlight clear ; 
Or caught from Eve’s dejected eyes 
Her first repentant tear. 
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