I°8 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
“ On this lone tower, so wild and drear, 
’Mid clouds and storms I love to lie, 
Because I find a freedom here 
Which prouder haunts could ne’er supply,, 
Safe on these walls I sit, and stem 
The elements that conquered them; 
And high o’er reach of plundering foe, 
Smile on an anxious world below. 
“ Though envied place I may not claim, 
On warrior’s crest, or lady’s hair; 
Though tongue may never speak my name, 
Nor eye behold and own me fair; 
To Him who tends me from the sky, 
I spread my beauties here on high, 
And bid the winds to waft above, 
My incense to His throne of love. 
“ And though in hermit solitude, 
Aloft and wild, my home I choose, 
On the rock’s bosom pillowed rude, 
And nurtured by the falling dews ; 
Yet duly with the opening year 
I hang my golden mantle here. 
A child of God’s I am, and He 
Sustains, and clothes, and shelters me. 
“ Nor deem my state without its bliss : 
Mine is the first young smile of day; 
Mine the light zephyr’s earliest kiss; 
And mine the skylark’s matin lay. 
These are my joys : with these on high 
In peace I hope to live and die, 
