

POULTRY OF FLOWERS, 
ROUSSEAU AND THE WILD FLOWER. 
WHEN known to fame, but not to peace, 
Alone, unfriended, worn with care, 
Th’ enthusiast bade his wanderings cease, 
And breath’d once more his native air, 
And hail’d again the tranquil scene 
Where once he roved with heart serene. 
The plant that bloom’d along the shore, 
Where there in happier hours he stray’, 
Still flourished gaily as before, 
In all its azure charms array’d ; 
There still it shone in modest pride, 
While all his flowers of joy had died. 
It seem’d to say, ‘‘ Hadst thou, like me, 
Contented bloom’d within the bed 
That Nature’s hand had form’d for thee, 
When first her dews were on thee shed. 
Then had thy blossoms never known 
The blast that o’er their buds have blown.”, 
It seem’d to say, ‘‘ The loveliest flower, 
That keeps unmoved its native sphere, 
May brave the season’s changeful power, 
And live through many a stormy year 5 


