A Holy-thistle here we meet
And there a Shepherd’s weather-glass;
And haply some familiar name
Shall grace the fairest, sweetest, plant 30
Whose presence cheers the drooping frame
Of English Emigrant.
Gazing she feels its power beguile
Sad thoughts, and breathes with easier breath;
Alas! that meek that tender smile 35
Is but a harbinger of death: