72 
PRIMROSE. 
Soon, on frosty pinions flying. 
Roars the blast with angry breath. 
While around deep snows are lying ; 
Then, mild flower, you sink in death 1 
So it is with human sorrow : 
Some fair infant smiles in joy; 
Expectation gilds the morrow ; 
Bliss knows then no keen alloy. 
Soon, alas ! stern sickness seizing. 
Sinks the sufferer to his doom ; 
While the soul, with prospects pleasing, 
Mounts to realms beyond the tomb ! 
THE PRIMROSE. 
MRS. HEMANS. 
I saw it in my evening walk, 
A little lonely flower; 
Under a hollow bank it grew. 
Deep in a mossy bower. 
An oak’s gnarled root to roof the cave. 
With gothic fretwork sprung, 
Whence jewell’d fern, and arum leaves. 
And ivy garlands hung. 
And close beneath came sparkling out. 
From an old tree’s fallen shell, 
