428 PROGRESS OF A NATURALIST. 



Too old his ferny hills to trace, 



In slumbers still he leads the chace. 



So, FLORA, in the vale of time 



I trace the pleasures of my prime, 



And find my heart beats calm and true 



To the first mistress that my fancy knew. 



Deep in the mist of years, I see, 

 Rambling alone the woodland lea, 

 A musing, slender, happy child, 

 Snatching in haste his flowers wild : 

 Twined in a wreath, with rushes green, 

 Cowslips and violets are seen ; 

 Now both his hands he stoops to fill, 

 Then shouts, and smiles, and gathers still 

 He seems the very king of joy 

 This young, this gleeful, slender boy. 



The wild bee sees, and murmurs round, 

 To scare him from her fav'rite ground, 

 In fear, lest he should gather more, 

 And rob her of her honied store. 



In little garden see him toil, 

 Planting these natives of the soil : 

 Though tended by his daily care, 

 The sickly nurslings languish there. 



A dusky cloud is come between 

 This musing child 's no longer seen. 



By table now, with blossoms spread, 

 A pallid youth bends low his head ; 



