Where'er I wander, still dost thou Ever upon my pathway bow; The field, the cliff--my children's tomb, To garland with spontaneous bloom. Where'er a mossy rock hath place, Thou wavest there in modest grace; Guarding beneath thy blushing vest, Midst tufted grass, the partridge-nest. Where'er o'er mountain path I toil, Thou spring'st to bless the grav'ly soil; Where straggling fence-row gives thee room, Thou fling'st a garland, and perfume; And oft thy dying odors play, Mingled in swathe of fragrant hay. Though thou dost love the woodland shade, Still for the sun-beam wert thou made. Stealing from copse to open sky-- Greeting from far the traveller's eye: Thou wert not 'born to blush unseen,' Sweet wilding rose; the meadow's queen! I love thy leaf's indented green; The tinge of red upon thy stalk; Thy pointed buds, so neatly furl'd: O, who hath said this western world Was to thy smile unknown! Come, let him take one morning walk, When May has well nigh flown; In dell or dingle, chiefly where A thicket meets the open air; Or where a gurgling streamlet takes Its sparkling leap through rocky brakes; O'er fence-row, to the tassel'd corn, The smiling rose nods from her thorn: O! ever, rose! smile thus to me, Memento of my childhood's glee. In warmer Greece, thou may'st repay, With richer glow, the softer day; At eve, as from the bul-bul's throat, Love's fabled breathings o'er thee float; Or England's gardens may enhance, By florist's art, thy trebled flower; But here thou'rt free; thy ev'ry glance Speaks but our nation's dower. Free as the foot of Pilgrim, set On Plymouth-rock by salt sea wet; Free as the soil on which he trod, Free as the pray'r he breath'd to GOD; Free as the untam'd Indian's eye, That tracks the foe none else can spy; Free as the arrow from his bow-- Free as the dark Missouri's flow; Free as the forest's untam'd herds; Free as the lake's migrating birds. Wild rose, and sweet! still grace the soil, Won by our fathers' sacred toil; Still cheer the labors of the plough-- The harvest rose, still flourish thou! Gayer may blow in Persian loom, Richer may breathe in Turk's perfume: But purer, sweeter, never hung The rocks, the paths, the fields among; I love thee, for thou dost for me Garland the country of the free! W. EDWARD FANE'S ROSEBUD.