To the Magnolia

When roaming o'er the marshy field,
Through tangled brake and treacherous slough,
We start, that spot so foul should yield,
Chaste blossom! such a balm as thou.
Such lavish fragrance there we meet,
That all the dismal waste is sweet.
So, in the dreary path of life,
Through clogging toil and thorny care,
Love rears his blossom o'er the strife,
Like thine, to cheer the wanderer there:
Which pours such incense round the spot,
His pains, his cares, are all forgot.