62 
FLORAL POESY. 
THE PRIMROSE. 
MRS. IIEMANS. 
I saw it in my evening walk, 
A little lonely flower ; 
Under a hollow bank it grew. 
Deep in a mossy bower. 
An oak’s gnarled root to roof the cave 
With gothic fretwork sprung, 
Whence jeweled fern, and arum-leaves, 
And ivy garlands hung. 
And close beneath came sparkling out 
From an old tree’s fallen shell 
A little rill that dipt about 
The lady in her cell. 
And then, methought, with bashful pride 
She seemed to sit and look 
On her own maiden loveliness, 
Pale imaged in the brook. 
No other flower, no rival grew 
Beside my pensive maid ; 
She dwelt alone, a cloistered nun. 
In solitude and shade. 
No ruffling wind could reach her there ; 
No eye, methought, but mine, 
Or the young lambs that came to drink, 
Had spied her secret shrine. 
And there was pleasantness to me 
In such belief—cold eyes 
That slight dear Nature’s loveliness, 
Profane her mysteries, 
