The Poetry of Flowers. 
69 
J ewels that all alike may share 
As freely as the common air ; 
No niggard hand, or jealous eye, 
Protects them from the passer by. 
Man to his brother shuts his heart, 
And Science acts a miser's part; 
But Nature, with a liberal hand, 
Flings wide her stores o’er sea and land. 
If gold she gives, not single grains 
Are scattered far across the plains ; 
But, lo ! the desert streams are rolled 
O'er precious beds of virgin gold. 
If flowers she offers, wreaths are given, 
As countless as the stars of heaven ; 
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. 
