Had to a Primrose looked for aid Her wishes to fulfil. High on the trunk's projecting brow, The treasure proudly did I show To some whose minds without disdain Can turn to little things; but once Looked up for it in vain: "T is gone, a ruthless spoiler's prey, Who heeds not beauty, love, or song! 'T is gone! (so seemed it,) and we grieved, Indignant at the wrong. Just three days after, passing by In clearer light, the moss-built cell The Primrose for a veil had spread And thus, for purposes benign, A simple flower deceives. Concealed from friends who might disturb Thy quiet with no ill intent Secure from evil eyes and hands Rest, Mother-bird! and when thy young Think how ye prospered, thou and thine, Housed near the growing Primrose-tuft, 1833. XXVIII. LOVE-LIES-BLEEDING. You call it, "Love-lies-bleeding,". so you may, Though the red Flower, not prostrate, only droops, As we have seen it here from day to day, So drooped Adonis bathed in sanguine dew Rent, weeping over him, her golden hair, Did press this semblance of unpitied smart Into the service of his constant heart, His own dejection, downcast Flower! could share With thine, and gave the mournful name which thou wilt ever bear. XXIX. COMPANION TO THE FOREGOING. NEVER enlivened with the liveliest ray When her coevals each and all are fled, What keeps her thus reclined upon her lonesome bed? The old mythologists, more impressed than we Of this late day by character in tree XXX. RURAL ILLUSIONS. SYLPH was it? or a Bird more bright Than those of fabulous stock? A second darted by; - and lo! Another of the flock, Through sunshine flitting from the bough To nestle in the rock. Of April's mimicries! Those brilliant strangers, hailed with joy Proved last year's leaves, pushed from the spray Maternal Flora! show thy face, Thy hand here sprinkling tiny flowers, Yet, sooth, those little starry specks, To be confounded with live growths, Not such the World's illusive shows; Her wingless flutterings, Her blossoms, which, though shed, outbrave The floweret as it springs, For the undeceived, smile as they may, Are melancholy things: But gentle Nature plays her part With ever-varying wiles, |