TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. 
BY E. ELLIOTT. 
Thy fruit full well the school-hoy knows, 
Wild Bramble of the brake ! 
So, put thou forth thy small white Rose ; 
I love it for his sake. 
Though Woodbine’s flaunt, and Roses glo 
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 full! 
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 ! 
