206 
LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Full many a bard has sung their praise 
In metre smooth, and polished line; 
A simple flower and humbler lays 
May best befit a pen like mine. 
There is a small but lovely flower. 
With crimson star and calyx brown. 
On pathway side, beneath the bower, 
By Nature’s hand profusely strown. 
Inquire you when this flowret springs ?— 
When Nature wakes to mirth and love. 
When all her fragrance summer flings, 
When latest autumn chilis the grove. 
Like the sweet bird whose name it bears, 
’Midst falling leaves and fading flowers. 
The passing traveller it cheers, 
In shorten’d days and darksome hours. 
And, should you ask me where it blows, 
I answer, on the mountains bare, 
High on the tufted rock it grows, 
In lonely glens or meadows fair. 
It blooms amidst those flowery dales 
Where winding Aire pursues its course; 
It smiles upon the craggy fells 
That rise around its lofty source. 
There are its rosy petals shewn, 
’Midst curious forms and mosses rare. 
Imbedded in the dark grey stone. 
When not another flower is there. 
