THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
187 
Or music—’tis no feeble note 
She bids along the valleys float; 
Ten thousand nameless melodies 
In one full chorus swell the breeze. 
Oh, art is but a scanty rill 
That genial seasons scarcely fill. 
But nature needs no tide’s return 
To fill afresh her flowing urn : 
She gathers all her rich supplies 
Where never-failing waters rise.” 
-*— 
TO THE ROUND-LEAFED SUNDEW. 
By the lone fountain’s secret bed, 
Where human footsteps rarely tread, 
’Mid the wild moor of silent glen, 
The Sundew blooms unseen by men; 
Spreads there her leaf of rosy hue, 
A chalice for the morning dew, 
And, ere the summer’s sun can rise, 
Drinks the pure waters of the skies. 
Wouldst thou that thy lot were given. 
Thus to receive the dews of heaven, 
With heart prepared, like this meek flowet * 
Come, then, and hail the dawning houT; 
So shall a Messing from on high, 
Pure as the rain of summer’s sky, 
