The Ground Laurel

by Hannah Flagg Gould

I love thee, pretty nursling
Of vernal sun and rain;
For thou art Flora's firstling,
And leadest in her train.

When far away I found thee
It was an April morn;
The chilling blast blew round thee,
No bud had decked the thorn.

And thou alone wert hiding
The mossy rocks between,
Where, just below them gliding,
The Merrimack was seen.

And while my hand was brushing
The seary leaves from thee,
It seemed that thou wert blushing
To be disclosed to me.

So modest, fair and fragrant,
Where all was wild and rude,
To cheer the lonely vagrant
Who crossed thy solitude, --

Thou didst reward my ramble
By shining at my feet,
When, over brake and bramble,
I sought thy lone retreat, --

As some sweet flower of pleasure
Upon our path may bloom,
'Mid rocks and thorns that measure
Our journey to the tomb!