To thy protecting shade she runs,
Thy tender buds supply her food;
Her young forsake her downy plumes
To rest upon thy opening blooms.

Flower of the desert though thou art!
The deer that range the mountain free,
The graceful doe, the stately hart,

Their food of shelter seek from thee;
The bee thy earliest blossom greets,
And draws from thee her choicest sweets.

Gem of the heath! whose modest bloom
Sheds beauty o'er the lonely moor;
Though thou' dispense no rich perfume,
Nor yet with splendid tints allure,
Both valour's crest and beauty's bower,
Oft hast thou decked, a favourite flower.
Flower of the wild! whose purple glow
Adorns the dusky mountain's side,
Not the gay hues of Iris' bow,

Nor garden's artful, varied pride
With all its wealth of sweets could cheer,
Like thee, the hardy mountaineer.

Flower of his heart! thy fragrance mild,
Of peace and freedom seems to breathe;
To pluck thy blossoms in the wild

And deck his bonnet with the wreath,
Where dwelt of old his rustic sires,
Is all his simple wish requires.

Flower of his dear-loved, native land!
Alas, when distant, far more dear!
When he from some cold foreign strand,
Looks homeward through the blinding tear,
How must his aching heart deplore

That home and thee he sees no more!"

"Now try me, papa.”

"In the first place, then," said Mr. C.," explain what is meant by

For thee the brake and tangled wood.'" "Brake signifies a sort of underwood, or fern leaves and brambles, papa," said Helen. "The heath-fowl or moorfowl is a bird peculiar to the British islands, and it is remarkably shy and wild in its disposition, preferring the solitude of the heath-covered mountains to the more verdant valleys that lie between them. The erica vulgaris, or common heath, is a sturdy but elegant little plant, bearing a tuft of pink blossoms; and mamma tells me, that the

* A Collection of Poems, edited by Miss Baillie.

wild dreary moors of Scotland, as well as the summits of its hills and mountains, are sometimes nearly covered with it, and that its buds supply the little heath-fowl with a delicate food."

66

Very well: let us go on to the next

stanza:

The bee thy earliest blossom greets

And draws from thee her choicest sweets.'

"Oh, papa! nothing, nothing can be more simple than this," exclaimed Helen. "Who does not know that bees fly from flower to flower extracting sweets from every one of them? and these lines mean that the bees, the busy, busy bees, are particularly fond of heath, because it yields such excellent honey."

"So far so good. Now, how will you explain these lines?

Both valour's crest and beauty's bower,
Oft hast thou decked, a favourite flower.'
"Why, you know, papa, that Geof-

frey Plantagenet, the father of Henry

the Second, used to wear a sprig of broom upon the crest of his helmet, for the name of Plantagenet was derived from this very circumstance, planta being Latin for plant, and genista for broom; and as this was the case, easily imagine that many a brave Scottish hero may have adorned his crest with the favourite flower of his native country."

I can

"One more explanation and I will give you credit for perfectly understanding this elegant little poem:

Not the gay hues of Iris' bow.""

Fortunately for Helen she had carefully examined line in this poem,

every

and she was at no loss to answer her

father's questions.

"In the Heathen mythology, papa," said she, "Iris is the goddess of the rainbow; in poetical language, therefore, the rainbow is called the Iris; and this is what is meant by

'Not the gay hues of Iris' bow.'' "What is it? What is it you are saying about the Heathen mythology?" said Maurice, hastening across the room and repeating, in an heroic style and

manner,

'He added not: and Iris from the skies,
Swift as a whirlwind on the message flies,
Meteorous the face of ocean sweeps,
Refulgent gliding o'er the sable deeps."

66

Oh, do not interrupt us with Homer this morning, Maurice," said Helen. "I was only just giving papa an explanation of the term Iris, and telling him that the rainbow, with all its variegated and beautiful colours, is poetically termed the Iris. Do not interrupt us. Have you any more questions to ask, papa ?"

"No: I think you understand this little poem, my dear; but are you quite sure that you never learned, by rote, any poetry which you did not understand?"