r by 
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ing 
POETRY OF FLOWERS. 47 
And of broken glades breathing their balm ; 
While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine re- 
mote, > 
And the deep mellow crush of the wood pigeon’s 
note 
Made music that sweetened the calm. 
Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune 
Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of 
June: 
Of old ruinous castles ye tell, 
Where I thought it delightful your beauties 
to find, 
When the magic of nature first breathed on m, 
mind, 
And your blossoms were part of her spell. 
Ev’n now what affections the violet awakes; 
What lov’d little islands, twice seen in their 
lakes, 
Can the wild water-lily restore ; 
What landscapes I read in the primrose’s looks, 
And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy 
brooks 
In the vetches that tangled their shore. 
Farth’s. cultureless buds, to my: heart ye were 
dear, 
Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear, 
Had scathed my existence’s bloom. 









