THERE is a little perfum'd flower,
It well might grace the lovliest bower,
Yet poet never deign'd to sing
Of such a humble, rustic thing.
Nor is it strange, for it can show
Scarcely one tint of Iris' bow:
Nature, perchance, in careless hour,
With pencil dry, might paint the flower;
Yet instant blush'd, her fault to see,
So gave a double fragrancy;
Rich recompence for aught denied!
Who would not homely garb abide,
If gentlest soul were breathing there,
Blessings through all its little sphere?
Sweet flower! the lesson thou hast taught,
Shall check each proud, ambitious thought,
Teach me internal worth to prize,
Though found in lowliest, rudest guise.
_Salem Gazette,_ June 27, 1815.
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[Illustration]
_CASTALIAN FOUNT._