COWSLIP. 
89 
A boyish group—we laughed away the hours, 
Plucking the yellow blooms for future wine. 
While o’er us played a mother’s smile divine. 
COWSLIPS. 
HO WITT. 
On! fragrant dwellers of the lea. 
When first the wild wood rings 
With each sound of vernal minstrelsy. 
When fresh the green grass springs ! 
What can the blessed Spring restore 
More gladdening than your charms ; 
Bringing the memory once more 
Of lovely fields and farms ! 
Of thickets, breezes, birds and flowers; 
Of life’s unfolding prime ; 
Of thoughts as cloudless as the hours ; 
Of souls without a crime. 
Oh ! blessed, blessed do ye seem, 
For, even now, I turned, 
With soul athirst for wood and stream, 
From streets that glared and burned. 
From the hot town, where mortal care 
His crowded fold doth pen; 
