MAY. 
I 
30 
Onward I sped in musing mood, 
Till near my path, now wild and rude, 
A flow’ret met my view ; 
Unlike to those I’d left, it chose 
A lowly bed, ‘yet blithe as rose 
That in the king’s own garden grows,’ 
It sipt ’the morning dew. 
I paused, the sky became o’ercast, 
An d the chill rain fell thick and fast,— 
How fared that blossom now ? 
With head on its slight stem inclined, 
Smiling it met both rain and wind, 
As if to teach me it designed 
’Heath sorrow’s storm to bow. 
Its name I knew, and deemed full well, 
From its low home in rugged dell 
It might this hint afford, 
That, whilst exotics only flower 
In cultured soil, and sheltered bower, 
Heartsease may be alike the dower 
Of peasant and of lord. 
Yea, brows may ache which wear a crown, 
And palace-walls give back the groan 
Of breaking hearts I ween, 
Whilst in the peasant’s lowly nest, 
That which fair Eden’s shades once blest, 
Oft lingers still a cherished guest, 
Cheering life’s varied scene. 
Then let the storm beat o’er my head, 
If, while the rugged path I tread, 
That ease of heart be mine, 
Which, when the darkling cloud doth rise, 
Hot with the passing sunbeam dies, 
But, all unchanged by frowning skies, 
Throughout the storm doth shine. 
Mus. Hey. 
