Beautiful art thou, O Broom! waving in all thy rich array of green and gold, on the breezy bosom of the bee-haunted heath. The sleeping sunshine, and the silver-footed showers, the clouds that for ever play about the face of Heaven, the homeless winds, and the crystal-globed dews, that settle upon thy blossoms like sleep on the veined eyelids of an infant, are ever beating above and around thee, as if to tell that they rejoice in thy companionship, and that, although a thousand years have strided by with silent steps, time hath not abated an atom of their love. Who can tell the thoughts of Saxon Alfred when, wandering alone, crownless and sceptreless, he stretched himself on the lonely moor beneath the shadow of thy golden blossoms, sighing for the fair queen he had left far behind? When he bowed his kingly head, and, musing on thy beauty, buried in a solitary wild, thought how even regal dignity would be enhanced by humility, and that, although thou didst grow there unmarked and unpruned, not a more princely flower waved in his own English garden. * * * * * Humility, that low, sweet root, From which all heavenly virtues shoot. _Moore._ * * * * * Oh the Broom, the bonny bonny Broom, The Broom of the Cowden-knowes; For sure so soft, so sweet a bloom, Elsewhere there never grows. _Scottish Song._ * * * * * Here is a precious jewel I have found Among the filth and rubbish of the world. I’ll stoop for it, but when I wear it here, Set on my forehead like the morning-star, The world may wonder, but it will not laugh. _Longfellow._ * * * * * Their groves of sweet myrtle, let foreign lands reckon, Where bright beaming summers exalt the perfume; Far dearer to me yon lone glen o’ green breckan, Wi’ the burn stealing under the lang yellow Broom. _Burns._ * * * * * But the publican stood afar off in his grief, For he felt like a beggar who needed relief; And he raised not his eyes, and he saw not the scorn Which the lip of the Pharisee proudly had worn. But he smote on his bosom, and deeply he sighed; As a sinner, for mercy, sweet mercy, he cried. It was all he could utter, but GOD hears a sigh, And listens, no matter how feeble the cry. Both unheard and unblest, the proud Pharisee then Returned to the pomp of his riches again; While the publican sinner, though loathed and oppressed, Went joyfully homeward with peace in his breast. _MacKellar._ ST. JOHN’S WORT.... _Superstition_.