130 
The Poetry 0/ Flowers. 
But this small flower, to nature dear, 
While moon and stars their courses run, 
Wreathes the whole circle of the year, 
Companion of the sun. 
It smiles upon the lap of May, 
To sultry August spreads its charms, 
Lights pale October on his way, 
And twines December’s arms. 
The purple heath, and golden broom, 
On moory mountains catch the gale ; 
O'er lawns the Lily sheds perfume, 
The Violet in the vale ; 
But this bold flow'ret climbs the hill, 
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen, 
Stays on the margin of the rill, 
Peeps round the fox’s den. 
Within the garden’s cultured round 
It shares the sweet Carnation's bed ; 
And blooms in consecrated ground 
In honour of the dead. 
The lambkin crops its crimson gem, 
The wild-bee murmurs on its breast, 
The blue-fly bends its pensile stem, 
Light o’er the skylark’s nest. 
’Tis Flora’s page :—in every place, 
In every season fresh and fair, 
It opens with perennial grace, 
And blossoms everywhere. 
On waste and woodland, rock and plain, 
I ts humble buds unheeded rise ; 
The Rose has but a summer reign, 
The Daisy never dies. 
