HAREBELL. 
121 
The same. — anon. 
Sweet Flower! though many a ruthless storm 
Sweep fiercely o’er thy slender form. 
And many a sturdier plant may bow 
In death beneath the tempest’s blow, 
Submissive thou, in pensive guise, 
Uninjured by each gale, shalt rise, 
And deck’d with innocence remain 
The fairest tenant of the plain: 
So, conscious of its lowly state, 
Trembles the heart assail’d by fate, 
Yet, when the fleeting blast is o’er, 
Settles as transient as before; 
While the proud breast no peace shall find, 
No refuge for a troubled mind. 
THE HAREBELL AND THE FOX-GLOVE. 
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: 
Her neighbour, the nightingale, sung her to rest; 
And care had ne’er planted a thorn in her breast. 
