September. 79 
WILD FLOWERS. 
Beautiful flowers of the woods and fields, 
That bloom by mountain streamlets, 'mid the heather, 
Or into clusters 'neath the hazels gather, 
Or, where by hoary rocks you make your bields, 
And sweetly flourish on through summer weather,— 
I love ye all! 
Beautiful flowers ! to me ye fresher seem 
From the Almighty Hand, that fashioned all, 
Than those that flourish by a garden wall; 
And I can image you as in a dream, 
Fair, modest maidens, nursed in hamlets small— 
I love ye all! 
Beautiful gems, that on the brow of earth 
Are fixed as in a queenly diadem ! 
Though lowly ye, and most without a name, 
Young hearts rejoice to see your buds come forth, 
As light erewhile into the world came— 
I love ye all! 
Beautiful things ye are, where’er ye grow !— 
The wild red rose, the speedwell's peeping eyes, 
Our own bluebell, the daisy, that doth rise 
Wherever sunbeams fall or winds do blow, 
And thousands more of blessed forms and dyes— 
I love ye all! 
