
lear 

THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 133 
THE WATCHER BY THE WAYSIDE. 
Lever despair. 
HE traveller in Switzerland a floweret 
oft may see, 
That richly by the wayside blooms, 
uncultured, wild and free ; 
It lifts its modest little head, and turns its calm 
blue eye— 
Bright as the stars that peep at eve from outa 
clouded sky— 
With such a gay and cheerful glance to every 
passer-by. 

Not in the garden’s shelter’d nook is its fair 
presence found, 
Where order smiles on every group, and sister 
flowers abound ; 
Along the hot and dusty road, where all looks 
dry and bare, 
With glad contentedness it takes its lowly station 
there, 
And willingly its fragrance flings upon the 
summer air. 














