THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 249 
Yet to my British heart more dear 
Than all the torrid zone. 
Thrice welcome, little English flower ! 
Of early scenes beloved by me, 
While happy in my father’s bower, 
Thou shalt the blithe memorial be; 
The fairy sports of infancy, 
Youth’s golden age, and manhood’s prime, 
Home, country, kindred, friends,—with thee 
Are mine in this far clime. 
Thrice welcome, little English flower 
I’ll rear thee with a trembling hand; 
O for the April sun and shower, 
The sweet May-dews of that fair land, 
Where daisies, thick as star-light, stand 
In every walk !—that here might shoot, 
Thy scions, and thy buds expand, 
A hundred from one root! 
Thrice welcome, little English flower! 
To me the pledge of hope unseen : 
When sorrow would my soul o’erpower 
For joys that were, or might have been, 
I’ll call to mind, how—fresh and green— 
1 saw thee waking from the dust; 
Then turn to heaven, with brow serene, 
And place in God my trust. 
