Thou beauteous flower, with heart of gold,
Bravely defying winter's cold,
When dreary north winds shrilly whistle
Over the desolate fields of thistle;
Thou comest to bless in beauty's ways,
With memories of summer days,
When at the touch of gentle showers,
Decked were the fields in myriad flowers;
Yet more than all I praise to-day
This blossom bright,
Since on her breast it lay
Only last night.
JOHN ANGUS THOMPSON. Wesleyan Literary Monthly
~My Treasures.~
My jewels are the drops of dew
That sparkle on the grass,
Or break into a thousand bits
When ruthless footsteps pass.
My gold bedecks the sunlit cloud,
Untouched by human hand;
My silver is the sleeping sea,
Unshadowed by the land.
My friend is every wooded hill,
And every singing brook;
For they are always true to me,
And wear a kindly look
And yet how few would ever think
To count these treasures o'er;
But, dreaming oft of Satan's gold,
Would ask kind Heaven for more.
Co-heirs of Nature all may be,
Although of humble birth;
And yet, the miser hugs his gold,
While poor men own the earth.
WILBUR DANIEL SPENCER. Dartmouth Literary Monthly,
~A Pasture.~