THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. 43 
Will mark where sleeps their peaceful clay, 
And roll, ere long, the stone away. 
— Blackwood’s Magazine. 
THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. 
Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows. 
Wild bramble of the brake ! 
So, put thou forth thy small white rose; 
I love it for his sake. 
Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow 
O’er all the fragrant bowers, 
Thou need’st not be ashamed to show 
Thy satin-threaded flowers; 
For dull the eye, the heart is dull, 
That cannot feel how fair, 
Amid all beauty beautiful, 
Thy tender blossoms are ! 
How delicate thy gauzy frill! 
How rich thy branchy stem ! 
How soft thy voice when woods are still. 
And thou sing’st hymns to them ; 
While silent showers are falling slow, 
And, ’mid the general hush, 
A sweet air lifts the little bough, 
Lone whispering through the bush ! 
