

FOETRY OF FLOWERS. 
The frugal cottage dames distil, 
Nor envy France the vine; 
While many a festal cup they fill 
Of Britain’s homely wine. 
Perhaps from nature’s earliest May, 
Imperishable ’midst decay, 
Thy self-renewing race 
Have breathed their balmy lives away, 
In this neglected place. 
And oh! till nature’s final doom 
Here unmolested may they bloom, 
From scythe and plough secure; 
This bank their cradle and their tomb, 
While earth and skies endure ! 
—_—_ 
THE WILD FLOWER. 
SwEET wilding tufts that ’mid the waste, 
Your lowly buds expand : 
Though by no sheltering walls embraced, 
Nor trained by beauty’s hand; 
The primal flowers which grace your stems 
Bright as the dahlia’s shine, 
Found thus like unexpected gems 
To lonely hearts like mine, 
9 
Whose simple sweets with curious skill 

















