TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. 
103 
The Primrose to the grave is gone; 
The Hawthorn flower is dead ; 
The Violet by the moss’d gray stone 
Hath laid her wearied head ; 
But thou Wild Bramble ! back dost bring. 
In all their beauteous power, 
The first green days of life’s fair spring, 
And boyhood’s blossomy hour. 
Scorn’d Bramble of the brake ! once more 
Thou bid’st me be a boy, 
To gad with thee the woodlands o’er, 
In freedom and in joy. 
