WHY should this little withered flower,
So scentless, pale, and dry,
Be dearer than the garden's pride,
That captivates the eye?
It has a beauty for the mind,
A fragrance for the heart,
Which time can no more dissipate,
Than Nature could impart.
A precious little English boy,
My own baptismal child,
An English daisy, sent to me,
Across the waters wild.
And English homes and English hearts,
Through memory's magic power,
And all the blessed English Church,
Live in that little flower.
RIVERSIDE, ST. MATTHEW'S DAY, 1845.