THE MYRTLE. 
BY MONTGOMERY. 
Dark-green and gemmed with flowers of snow. 
With close uncrowded branches spread, 
Not proudly high, nor meanly low, 
A graceful Myrtle reared its head. 
Its mantle of unwithering leaf. 
Seem’d in my contemplative mood. 
Like silent joy, or patient grief, 
The symbol of pure gratitude. 
Still life, methought, is thine, fair tree! 
Then pluck’d a sprig, and while I mused, 
With idle hands, unconsciously, 
The delicate small foliage bruised. 
Odours at my rude touch set free, 
Escaped from all their secret cells; 
Quick life, I cried, is thine, fair tree ! 
In thee a soul of fragrance dwells: 
