67 
THE PRIMROSE 
THE MOUNTAIN PRIMROSE. 
The traveller hastened on his way, 
He sought to reach that mountain’s brow, 
And often feared he, lest the day, 
Which fast was gaining on him now. 
Should see him stretched upon the snows, 
Wearied and spent ere it should close. 
He knew that either voice or sound. 
Though echoed by the mountain’s side, 
Would fall unheard upon the ground; — 
He knew that o’er the landscape wide, 
Nor herdsman’s song, nor convent bell, 
Of human hearts or homes should tell. 
A sad and lonely feeling came 
Upon that weary wanderer’s heart, 
A shivering o’er his manly frame, — 
He seemed from human ties apart; 
For in those regions cold and wild, 
Were none who loved, were none who smiled. 
He gazed in sadness on the snow. 
And wondering spied a floweret’s bloom; 
He stooped to gather it, and lo, 
A primrose grew amid the gloom ! 
And to his anxious spirit brought 
A cheerful home — a gladdening thought. 
It wore not just the modest hue. 
Of that which in his native dell, 
Impearled with early morning’s dew. 
Of spring and pleasant days would tell; 
But a wild primrose was it still. 
Smiling upon that dreary hill. 
And to his fancy, in that hour. 
It seemed a messenger from home. 
And its sweet fragrance had the power. 
As, o’er the blue sea, it had come 
To tell, for him were uttered there. 
The words of love, the voice of prayer. 
