Page:A Selection of Original Songs, Scraps, Etc., by Ned Farmer (1st ed.).djvu/57



Love's an exotic, the heart is the soil
 * Where implanted, it firmly grows on,

In the pride of its beauty, diffusing its smile,
 * When the weed, sensuality's gone.

And should the cold touch of indifference come,
 * To attempt its removal, you'll find

(It may wrest the plant from its favorite home,)
 * But 'twill leave naught but ruin behind!

When 'whelmed in deep sorrow, you find that it's dead,
 * And that all the atonement left here,

(With a heart, where a thorn hath been planted instead)
 * Is, to water its grave with a tear!

When remorse shall have lit the slow fire of regret,
 * And the pride of life's garden is flown,

And the seeds of despair have commingled and met
 * In the spot where the plant should have grown,—

How dreadful, on memory's tablet to view,
 * The sad record of happiness gone!

And to feel, that with different treatment from you,
 * The plant might have still flourished on!