214 THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
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 shown, 
’Midst curious forms and mosses rare, 
Imbedded in the dark gray stone, 
When not another flower is there. 
Oh! emblem of that steadfast mind 
Which, through the varying scenes of De, 
By genuine piety refined, 
Holds on its way ’midst noise and strife. 
Though dark the impending tempest lower, 
The path of beauty it espies, 
Oalm ’midst the whirlwind and the shower, 
Thankful when brighter hours arise. 
Oh! could our darken’d minds discern 
In thy sweet form this lesson plain, 
Could we it practically learn, 
Herb Robert would no*, bloom it vaia. 
