FUCHSIA. 
221 
Doth thy modest head as meekly bend. 
In thine own bright clime,—or doth exile lend 
To thy fragile stalk its drooping grace, 
Like the downcast look of a lovely face ? 
No ! thou would’st murmur, were language thine, 
It is not for these I appear to pine; 
Nor for glorious flowers, nor cloudless skies, 
Nor yet for the plumage of rainbow dyes. 
The kindly care I have met with here— 
The dew that is soft as affection’s tear, 
Would have soothed, if sorrow had bent my head, 
And life and vigour around me shed. 
But I do not pine, and I do not grieve, 
Why should I mourn for the things I leave ? 
I feel the sun and the gladsome air, 
And all places are joyous if they be there. 
And thus in the world we may happy be, 
Not in climate, nor valley, nor islet free; 
But wherever the tenderest love in our breast 
May have objects around it on which it can rest. 
