EVENING PRIMROSE. 
113 
Than vainer flowers, though sweeter far. 
The Evening Primrose shuns the day ; 
Blooms only to the western star, 
And love its solitary ray. 
In Eden’s vale an aged hind 
At the dim twilight’s closing hour, 
On his time-smoothed staff reclined, 
With wonder viewed the opening flower* 
“ Ill-fated flower, at eve to blow,” 
(In pity’s simple thought he cries,) 
“ Thy bosom must not feel the glow 
Of splendid suns, or smiling skies. 
“ Nor thee the vagrants of the field, 
The hamlet’s little train behold , 
Their eyes to sweet oppression yield, 
When thine the falling shades unfold. 
“ Nor thee the hasty shepherd heeds, 
When love has filled his heart with cares : 
For flowers he rifles all the meads ; 
For waking flowers—but thine forbears. 
“ Ah ! waste no more that beauteous bloom, 
On night’s chill shade that fragrant breath ; 
Let smiling suns those gems illume ! 
Fair flower 1 to live unseen is death ! ” 
Soft as the voice of vernal gales 
That o’er the bending meadows blow, 
Or streams that steal through even vales, 
And murmur that they move so slow. 
