40 
POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Tired of the search, I bent my way 
Where Teviot’s haunted waters stray; 
And from the Wild-Flowers of the grove 
I framed a garland for my love: 
The slender circlet first to twine 
I plucked the rambling Eglantine, 
That decked the cliff in clusters free, 
As sportive and as sweet as she: 
I stole the Violet from the brook, 
Though hid like her in shady nook, 
And wove it with the Mountain-Thyme— 
The myrtle of our stormy clime : 
The Hare-bell looked like Mary’s eye, 
The Blush Rose breathed her tender sigh, 
And Daisies, bathed in dew, exprest 
Her innocent and gentle breast. 
And now, my Mary’s brow to braid, 
This chaplet in her bower is laid, 
A fragrant emblem fresh and wild 
Of simple Nature’s sweetest child. 
Pringle 
THE LILY. 
How withered, perished seems the form 
Of yon obscure unsightly root! 
Yet from the blight of wintry storm. 
It hides secure the precious fruit. 
