POETRY.
TO THE WALLFLOWER. Thou halt no pensive charm to show Like those frail children of the snow, Who lift their heads awhile to sigh Their little hour away—and die.
Not thine to join the golden throng, That riot all the stream along, And, where the laughing waters call, Hold their high Easter carnival.
Not thine the shy elusive grace That trembles in the violet's face, Nor with the primrose coy to fling Arch challenge to the laggard Spring.
Sweet Puritan, 'tis good to see Thy green and russet livery ; Thy honest charms were never lent To sparkle in Spring's firmament ; But in thy sweet old-fashioned way Thro unfrequented plots to stray, Content in lowly shrine obscure To share thy fragrance with the poor; And, where the crumbling ruins tell Their weary tale of years, to dwell, And with thy lovelit lamp of gold Cheer the long hours of the old.
W. GILCHRIST WILSON.
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