PRIMROSE. 68 



No other flower, no rival grew 



Beside my pensive maid ; 

 She dwelt alone, a cloister'd nun 



In solitude and shade. 



No sunbeam on that fairy pool, 



Darted its dazzling light ; 

 Only, methought, some clear, cold star 



Might tremble there at night. 



No ruffling wind could reach her there, 



No eye, methought, but mine ; 

 Or the young lambs that came to drink, 



Had spied her secret shrine. 



And there was pleasantness to me 



In such belief; — cold eyes 

 That slight dear Nature's loveliness, 



Profane her mysteries. 



Long time I look'd and linger'd there, 



Absorb'd in still delight; 

 My spirit drank deep quietness 



In, with that quiet sight. 



The same. — clake. 



Welcome, pale Primrose! starting up between 

 Dead matted leaves of ash and oak, that strew 

 The very lawn, the wood, and spinney through, 



'Mid creeping moss and ivy's darker green: 



