212 
HAREBELL. 
In summer’s beam the roses shine. 
But I of thee my wreath will twine, 
When these are vanished. 
THE HAREBELL AND THE FOX¬ 
GLOVE. 
ANON. 
In a valley obscure, on a bank of green shade, 
A sweet little Harebell her dwelling had 
made ; 
Her roof was a woodbine, that tastefully spread 
Its close-woven tendrils, o’erarching her head; 
Her bed was of moss, that each morning made 
new ; 
She dined on a sunbeam and supp’d on the 
dew : 
tier neighbour, the nightingale, sung her to 
rest; 
And care had ne’er planted a thorn in her 
breast. 
One morning she saw, on the opposite side, 
A Fox-glove displaying his colours of pride : 
She gazed on his form that in stateliness grew. 
And envied his height, and his brilliant hue ; 
She mark d how the flow’rets all gave way 
before him, 
