104 
THE LANGUAGE OF FLOV/ERS. 
THE WALLFLOWER. 
LANGHORNE. 
“ Why loves my flower, the sweetest flower. 
That swells the golden breast of May, 
Thrown rudely o’er yon ruined tower, 
To waste her solitary day. 
“ Why, when the mead, the spicy vale, 
The grove and genial garden call, 
Will she her fragrant soul exhale, 
Unheeded on the lonely wall? 
“ For never sure was beauty born 
To live in death’s deserted shade! 
Come, lovely flower, my banks adorn; 
My banks, for life and beauty made.’* 
Thus pity waked the tender thought— 
And, by her sweet persuasion led, 
To seize the hermit flower I sought 
And bear her from her stony bed: 
I sought—but sudden on my ear 
A voice in hollow murmurs broke, 
And smote my heart with holy fear, 
The Genius of the ruin spoke: 
“ From thee be far th’ ungentle deed, 
The honours of the dead to spoil, 
Or take the sole remaining meed, 
The flower that crowns their former toil. 
