The Poetry of Flowers. 
121 
On pathway side, beneath the bower, 
By Nature’s hand profusely strown. 
Inquire you when this flow’ret springs?— 
When Nature wakes to mirth and love, 
When all her fragrance Summer flings, 
When latest Autumn chills the grove. 
Like the sweet bird whose name it bears, 
'Midst falling leaves and fading flowers, 
The passing traveller it cheers, 
In shortened days and darksome hours. 
And should you ask me where it blows, 
I answer, on the mountains bare, 
High on the tufted rock it grows, 
In lonely glens or meadows fair. 
It blooms amidst those flowery dales, 
Where winding Aire pursues its course ; 
It smiles upon the craggy fells 
That rise around its lofty source. 
There are its rosy petals shown, 
’Midst curious forms and mosses rare, 
Imbedded in the dark grey stone, 
When not another flower is there. 
Oh ! emblem of that steadfast mind 
Which, through the varying scenes of life, 
By genuine piety refined, 
Holds on its way ’midst noise and strife. 
Though dark the impending tempest lower, 
The path of beauty it espies, 
Calm 'midst the whirlwind and the shower, 
Thankful when brighter hours arise. 
