WALLFLOWER. 
53 
Yon dark sepulchral yew-trees stand 
O’er many a level grave. 
In the belfry’s crevices, the dove 
Her young brood nurseth well, 
Whilst thou, lone flower, dost shed above 
A sweet, decaying smell. 
In the season of the tulip-cup, 
When blossoms clothe the trees, 
How sweet to throw the lattice up, 
And scent thee on the breeze ! 
The butterfly is then abroad, 
The bee is on the wing, 
And on the hawthorn by the road 
The linnets sit and sing. 
Sweet Wallflower, sweet Wallflower! 
Thou conjurest up to me 
Full many a soft and sunny hour 
Of boyhood’s thoughtless glee ; 
When joy from out the daisies grew 
In woodland pastures green, 
And summer skies were far more blue 
Than since they e’er have been. 
Now Autumn’s pensive voice is heard 
Amid the yellow bowers; 
The robin is the regal bird, 
And thou the queen of flowers! 
He sings on the laburnum trees. 
Amid the twilight dim, 
And Araby ne’er gave the breeze 
Such scents as thou to him. 
F 2 
