With a Moss-wreath

CUSTOM has her forms and uses,Courtesies, too, all admire;But cold etiquette abuses,Ofttimes chills each pure desire.

Lady, here in greenwood bowers,While the song-bird sang to me,Gilding all the summer hours,With the sweetest melody,—Here, in arbors by the mountain,Where the merry streamlets play,From each shady brook and fountain,I have gathered by the way

Mosses exquisite, outvyingGarden gems of varied hue,—Not like them their richness dying,—Wove them in a wreath for you;You, with every grace beguilingGrief and pain, a vestal wherePoverty and want are calling,Answering the orphan's prayer.

For its unpretending beauty,Gentle lady, you will prize;Trifles cheer the path of duty,Often in them magic lies;Nature with her quiet teachingOffers her perpetual balm,To our hearts alway beseechingAll to sing their simple psalm.

Lady, pardon; may the pleasureWhich it gave me while I woveBe imparted in full measureFrom this quiet, lovely grove;Go, fair wreath, to halls of splendor,From a donor's hand unknown;If a smile of love you render,Then your power I'll joy to own.

You may deck some wall or statueWith your amaranthine bloom;Or perchance, alas, in sorrowLaid upon some loved one's tomb:Now adieu to stream and mountain,Song and bird and greenwood bower;Rock and wreath and gushing fountainAll must own your thrilling power.