









194, POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
And here’s a bright blossom, a gay one indeed, 
Our mountain-maids name it the Butterfly- 
weed ; 
So gorgeous its colours, one scarcely can tell 
If the flower or the insect in beauty excel. 
Here’s the low dwarf Acacia, that droops as i 
grows, 
And its leaves, as you gather them, tremble and 
close ; 
And near us, I know by her breath on the gale, 
Is the tall yellow Primrose, so pretty and pale. 
Here’s the Pigeon-pea, fit for a fairy’s bowers, 
And the purple Thrift, straightest and primmest 
of flowers. 
Here is Privet, no prettier shrub have we met ; 
And the Midsummer-daisy is hiding here yet. 
But stay—we are now on the high hill’s brow! 
How bright lie the fields in the sunlight below ! 
Do you see those white chimneys that peep o’er 
the grove? 
’Tis your own little cottage, the home that you 
love : 
Let us go to the fields where the Chinquapins 
are, 
And through the long lane where the Chestnuts 
hang fair, 


