COWSLIP. 
197 
Man to his brother shuts his heart, 
And Science acts a miser’s part ; 
But Nature, with a liberal hand, 
Flings wide her stores o’er sea and land. 
If gold she gives, not single grains 
Are scatter’d far across the plains ; 
But lo, the desert streams are roll’d 
O’er precious beds of virgin gold. 
If flowers she offers, wreaths are given, 
As countless as the stars of heaven: 
Or music — ’tis no feeble note 
She bids along the valleys float; 
Ten thousand nameless melodies 
In one full chorus swell the breeze. 
Oh, art is but a scanty rill 
That genial seasons scarcely fill. 
But nature needs no tide’s return 
To fill afresh her flowing urn ; 
She gathers all her rich supplies 
Where never-failing waters rise. 
17 * 
