HARE-BELL. 263 



But when the whirl-wind soundeth 

 A strong tempestuous blast, 



Its head it gently boweth 



'Till the angry wind hath past. 



Then from the stormy conflict, 

 With winning, quiet grace, 



Unharmed, once more it riseth 

 To its own accustomed place. 



For He, to whom it oweth 



The beauty of its form, 

 Hath in His goodness given 



The strength to meet the storm. 



I love this little flowret, 

 And in its yielding grace, 



Oft in my thoughtful fancy 

 Imagine I can trace 



Resemblance to a dear one, 



Who hath in real life, 

 Bowed with such calm submission 



To storms of angry strife. 



