122 WILD FLOWERS. 
Sung by prouder harps than mine,* 
Wooes the breeze to kiss away 
The jewelled dew-drops that inlay, 
Like purest thoughts, its dainty breast! 
Here the cowslip loves to rest, 
And its yellow ringlets toss 
O’er its couch of velvet moss! 
Here the spotted foxglove dwells, 
Ringing oft its fairy bells; 
And its sister, purely white, 
Makes the shady places bright, 
Like that maiden, mild and young, 
By Spenser’s magic numbers sung! 
There are richer gems than these 
Kissed and fanned by many a breeze; 
Gems, on which the rainbow seems 
To have flung Elysian gleams; 
And the spirit of perfume 
To have wept ambrosial bloom! 
• Vide Wordsworth’s Poems. 
