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WILD FLOWERS GATHERED FOR A SICK FRIEND.
RISE from the dells where ye first were born, From the tangled beds of the weed and thorn, Rise, for the dews of the morn are bright, And haste away, with your eyes of light.
—Should the green-house patricians, with withering frown On your simple vestments look haughtily down, Shrink not, for His finger your heads hath bow'd Who heeds the lowly, and humbles the proud.
—The tardy spring, and the chilling sky, Hath meted your robes with a miser's eye, And check'd the blush of your blossoms free; With a gentler friend your home shall be; To a kinder ear you may tell your tale Of the zephyr's kiss, and the scented vale: Ye are charm'd! ye are charm'd! and your fragrant sigh Is health to the bosom on which ye die.