92 THE WALL-FLOWER. 
All in iis rude and prickly bower, 
That crimson rose, how sweet and fair! 
But love is a far sweeter flower, 
Amid life’s thorny path o’ care. 
The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, 
Wi’ Chloris in my arms, be mine; 
And I, the world nor wish, nor scorn. 
Its joys and griefs alike resign. 
—Burks. 
THE WALL-FLOWER. 
The wall-flower—the wall-flower. 
How beautiful it blooms! 
It gleams above the ruin’d tower. 
Like sunlight over tombs; 
It sheds a halo of repose 
Around the wrecks of time;— 
To beauty give the flaunting rose, 
The wall-flower is sublime. 
Flower of the solitary place ! 
Grey ruin’s golden crown ! 
Thou lendest melancholy grace 
To haunts of old renown ; 
Thou mantlest o’er the battlement, 
