The Poetry of Flowers. 
138 
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— 
I saw thee waking from the dust; 
Then turn to heaven, with brow serene, 
And place in God my trust. 
THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK. 
BY WORDSWORTH. 
A ROCK there is whose lonely front 
The passing traveller slights ; 
Yet there the glow-worms hang their lamps, 
Like stars, at various heights ; 
