COWSLIP. 197 



Man to his brother shuts his heart, 

 And Science acts a miser's part ; 

 But Nature, with a liberal hand, 

 Flings wide her stores o'er sea and land. 

 If gold she gives, not single grains 

 Are scatter'd far across the plains ; 

 But lo, the desert streams are roli'd 

 O'er precious beds of virgin gold. 

 If flowers she offers, wreaths are given, 

 As countless as the stars of heaven : 

 Or music 'tis no feeble note 

 She bids along the valleys float ; 

 Ten thousand nameless melodies 

 In one full chorus swell the breeze. 



Oh, art is but a scanty rill 

 That genial seasons scarcely fill. 

 But nature needs no tide's return 

 To fill afresh her flowing urn ; 

 She gathers all her rich supplies 

 Where never-failing waters rise. 



