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140

THE WAY BROAD-LEAF.

When Winter howls along the hill,
We find the broad-leaf'd plantain still;
The way broad-leaf, of herbs the chief,
We never miss the way broad-leaf;
'Tis common as the poor.
To soothe the cruel scorner's woes,
Beneath the scorner's feet it grows;
Neglected, trampled, still it thrives,
A creature of unnumber'd lives;
How like the trampled poor!
When roses die, it still remains;
Hoof-crush'd, beneath unpitying rains,
Roll'd o'er by ringing carts and wains,
It suffers still, but ne'er complains;
Just like the helpless poor!
Scorn'd by the bluebells—or bent o'er
Their graves beneath the sycamore—
Meek, modest, silent, useful still,
It loves to do the gentle will
Of Him who loves the poor!