’.2q 
THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
To thy protecting shade she runs, 
Thy tender buds supply her food; 
Her young forsake her downy plumes 
To rest upon thy opening blooms. 
Flower of the desert though thou art! 
The deer that range the mountain free, 
The graceful doe, the stately hart, 
Their food or shelter seek from thee; 
The bee thy earliest blossom greets, 
And draws from thee her choicest sweets. 
Gem of the heath ! whose modest bloom 
Sheds beauty o’er the lonely moor; 
Though thou dispense no rich perfume, 
Nor yet with splendid tints allure, 
Both valour’s crest and beauty’s power, 
Oft hast thou decked, a favourite flower. 
Flower of the wild ! whose purple glow 
Adorns the dusky mountain’s side, 
Not the gay hues of Iris’ bow, 
Nor garden’s artful, varied pride, 
With all its wealth of sweets could cheer, 
Like thee, the hardy mountaineer. 
Flower of his heart! thy fragrance mild, 
Of peace and freedom seems to breathe. 
To pluck thy blossoms in the wild, 
And deck his bonnet with the wreath, 
Where dwelt of old his rustic sires, 
Is all his simple wish requires. 
Flower of his dear-loved native land! 
Alas, when distant, far more dear ! 
