84 
PRIMROSE. 
And when my garden’s motley train 
Are shadowed by the veil of night, 
With stedfast look we scarce sustain 
Its flashes of phosphoric light. 
’Tis then, my evening friend, thine eyes 
I see thee slow, serene, unclose ; 
And, if a cloud obscure the skies, 
Would shield from storm thy pale repose. 
Then oft, the sultry heats o’erpast, 
I bid thee lift thy modest head. 
And hail thy tints, so cool, so chaste, 
Rejoicing in the silent shade. 
And if thou owe, to shine afraid, 
Thy lustre to the pearly dew, 
I greet thee like some timid maid, 
Thus stealing light, and trembling, too 
