aot 
POETRY OF FLOWERS. 285 
Thine ancient, solemn title, sure was given, 
Pale “ AnueLutia,” by grey monks of old, 
What time the chanted service rose to heaven, 
When paced the brethren forth, Barefoot and 
stoled, 
To far-off fanes in hoary forest hid, 
Where pealing bells for Easter masses rung ; 
When all to hail that holy time were bid, 
And incense through the buttress’d piles was 
flung. 
Not unobservant they, those brethren pale, 
They would not crush, with careless foot, thy 
flower ; 
While ‘‘ Alleluias” swept adown the vale, 
They stepp’d aside, and bless’d thy spring-tide 
hour. 
They passed away!—aud moulder’d are the 
fanes— 
The mortals and their works alike are gone; 
Dark roll’d the tide of war along the plains, 
Yet thou, a simple flower, unhurt, liv’dst on. 
It chanced upon the good Saint Patrick’s day, 
A warrior, wounded, fell, with riven crest ; 
Thy little careless plant bloom’d where he lay, 
And hope reviving sprang within his breast. 





