POETRY OF FLOWERS. 57 
How I love to see thee lie, 
In thy low serenity, 
Basking in the gladsome beam ; 
Or, beside some murmuring stream 
Gently bowing from thy nest 
Greet the water’s silver breast. 
Or mid fissure of the rock, 
Hidden from the tempest’s shock, 
Vie with snowy lily’s bell— 
Queen and fairy of the dell. 
Thee nor wind nor storm can tear 
From thy lonely mountain lair; 
Nor the sleety, sweeping rain, 
Root thee from thy native plain. 
Winter’s cold, nor Summer’s heat, 
Blights thee in thy snug retreat; 
Chill’d by snow or scorch’d by flame, 
Thou for ever art the same. 
Type of truth, and emblem fair 
Of virtue struggling through despair, 
Close may sorrows hem it round, 
Troubles bend it to the ground; 
Yet the soul within is calm, 
Dreads no anguish, fears no harms 
Conscious that the Hand which tries 
All its latent energies, 
Can, with more than equal power, 
Bear it through temptation’s hour, 
Still the conflict, soothe its sighs, 
And plant it "neath congenial skies. 









