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THE COWSLIP. 89 



From the hot town, where mortal care 

 His crowded fold doth pen ; 

 Where stagnates the polluted air 

 In many a sultry den. 



And ye are here ! and ye are here ! 

 Drinking the dew-like wine, 

 'Midst living gales, and w^aters clerir, 

 And Heaven's unstinted shine. 



I care not that your little life 



Will quickly have run through, 



And the sward, with Summer children rife, 



Keep not a trace of you. 



For again, again, on dewy plain, 



I trust to see you rise. 



When Spring renew^s the wild wood strain, 



And bluer gleam the skies. 



Again, again, when many Springs 

 Upon my grave shall shine, 

 Here shall you speak of vanish'd things*. 

 To living hearts of mine. 



