44 THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. 
The primrose to the grave is gone; 
The hawthorn flower is dead ; 
The violet by the mossed gray stone 
Hath laid her weary head ; 
But thou, wild bramble ! back dost bring, 
In all their beauteous power. 
The fresh green days of life’s fair spring, 
And boyhood’s blossomy hour. 
Scorned bramble of the brake ! once more 
Thou bidd’st me be a boy, 
To gad with thee the woodlands o’er, 
In freedom and in joy. 
—Elliott. 
THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. 
Fair flower, that lapt in lowly glade 
Dost hide beneath the greenwood shade, 
Than whom the vernal gale 
None fairer wakes on bank or spray, 
Our England’s lily of the may, 
Our lily of the vale. 
Art thou that ‘ lily of the field,’ 
Which, when the Saviour sought to shield 
The heart from blank despair. 
