THE CHILD AND FLOWERS. 
Hast thou been in the woods with the honey-bee ? 
Hast thou been with the lamb in the pastures free ? 
With the hare through the copses and dingles wild ? 
With the butterfly over the heath, fair child ? 
Yes ; the light fall of thy bounding feet 
Hath not startled the wren from her mossy seat ; 
Yet hast thou ranged the green forest dells, 
And brought back a treasure of buds and bells. 
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Thou know’st not the sweetness, by antique song, 
Breathed o’er the names of that flowery throng ; 
The woodbine, the primrose, the violet dim, 
The lily that gleams by the fountain’s brim ; 
These are old words, that have made each grove 
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A dreamy haunt for romance and love ; 
Each sunny bank, where faint odors lie, 
A place for the gushings of poesy. 
Thou know’st not the light wherewith fairy lore 
Sprinkles the turf and the daisies o’er ; 
Enough for thee are the dews that sleep, 
Like hidden gems in the flower-urns deep ; 
Enough the rich crimson spots that dwell 
’Midst the gold of the cowslip’s perfumed cell ; 
And the scent by the blossoming sweetbricrs shed, 
And the beauty that bows the wood-hyacinth’s head. 
Oh ! happy child, in thy fawn -like glee, 
What is remembrance or thought to thee ? 
Fill thy bright locks with those gifts of Spring ; 
O’er thy green pathway their colors fling ; 
Bind them in chaplet and wild festoon — 
What if to droop and to perish soon ? 
Nature has mines of such wealth — and thou 
Never wilt prize its delights as now. 
