FUCHSIA. 
22 ? 
Doth thy modest head as meekly bend 
In thine own bright clime,—or doth exile lend 
To thy fragile stalk its drooping grace, 
Like the downcast look of a lovely face ? 
No ! thou would’st murmur, were language thine, 
It is not for these I appear to pine; 
Nor for glorious flowers, nor cloudless skies, 
Nor yet for the plumage of rainbow dyes. 
The kindly care I have met with here— 
The dew that is soft as affection’s tear, 
Would have soothed, if sorrow had bent my head, 
And life and vigour around me shed. 
But I do not pine, and I do not grieve, 
Why should I mourn for the things I leave ? 
I feel the sun and the gladsome air, * 
And all places are joyous if they be there. 
And thus in the world we may happy be, 
Not in climate, nor valley, nor islet free; 
But wherever the tenderest love in our breast 
May have objects around it on which it can rest. 
