WALLFLOWER. 
107 
THE WALLFLOWER. 
H. F. LYTE. 
Why loves my flower, so high reclined 
Upon these walls of barren gloom, 
To waste her sweetness on the wind, 
And far from every eye to bloom ? 
Why joy to twine with golden braid 
This ruined rampart’s aged head, 
Proud to expose her gentle form, 
And swing her bright locks in the storm ? 
That lonely spot is bleak and hoar, 
Where prints my flower her fragrant kiss; 
Yet sorrow hangs not fonder o’er 
The ruins of her faded bliss. 
And wherefore will she thus inweave 
The owl’s lone couch, and feel at eve 
The wild bat o’er her blossoms fling, 
And strike them down with heedless wing ? 
Thus gazing on the loftiest tower 
Of ruined Fore at eventide, 
The Muse addressed a lonely flower 
That bloomed above in summer pride. 
The Muse’s eye, the Muse’s ear, 
Can more than others see and hear: 
The breeze of evening murmured by, 
And gave, she deemed, this faint reply:— 
