61 
There is no fragrance in the breeze 
That comes from woodlands old, 
No glory in the kingcups fine 
That flush the field with gold: 
The violet and ladysmock 
To-day I do not see, 
Nor yet the white flower of the thorn, 
Nor yet the willow-tree. 
I heard the lark sing yesterday 
That all the world was fair, 
Now there’s a shadow on the earth 
And darkness in the air. 
There are no whispers in the wood, 
No glamour in the skies, 
No splendour on the forest falls, 
Nor on the river lies. 
Round me I look on moorlands dim, 
A solitude so vast, 
Ridge behind ridge, hill beyond hill, 
And there—behold at last 
A lonely summit far away, 
One hill, the last of seven, 
As it might be a cloud, a mist, 
Touched with a gleam of heaven. 
All else is dark but where I see 
The far off glory shine— 
And if the darkness is my own, 
So is the splendor mine! 
But it is not often the lover of nature has such days as these. 
For whether the darkness be upon the day or upon himself, if 
it is not the shadow of his own selfishness or fear, it will melt 
away, or take to itself beauty from the sun and comfort from the 
sweetness of the flower. ‘‘ Some shape of beauty moves away 
the pall from our dark spirit.’”’ An experience of this kind is 
the motive of the following verses which were suggested by the 
first primroses of early spring, gathered in a briery dingle at the 
foot of Pendle. As Rosalind says, they grew ‘in the borders 
of the Forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.” 
PRIMROSES. 
“What is good for a bootless bene ? "—Wordsworth. 
If thou art weary of sorrow, 
If thou art weary of. strife, 
Of all the noises of folly, 
And all the madness of life;— 
Arise in the early dawning, 
Hasten thy feet and go 
Down to the briery dingle 
Where the primrose-blossoms blow. 
