HONEYSUCKLE. 
135 
Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge 
With moonlight beams of their own watery light; 
And bulrushes and reeds of such deep green 
As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen. 
Methought that of these visionary flowers 
I made a nosegay, bound in such a way 
That the same hues which in their natural bowers 
Were mingled or opposed, the like array 
Kept these imprisoned children of the hours 
Within my hand,—and then, elate and gay, 
I hastened to the spot whence I had come, 
That I might there present it !—oh ! to whom ? 
FROM THE “RAPE OF PROSERPINE.” 
BARRY CORNWALL. 
Here this rose 
(This one half-blown) shall be my Maia’s portion 
For that like it her blush is beautiful ; 
And this deep violet, almost as blue 
As Pallas’ eye, or thine Lycinnia, 
I'll give to thee ; for like thyself it wears 
Its sweetness, ne’er obtruding. For this lily, 
Where can it hang but at Cyane’s breast ?. 
And yet ’twill wither on so white a bed, 
If flowers have sense, for envy :—It shall lie 
Amongst thy raven tresses, Cytheris, 
Like one star on the bosom of the night. 
The cowslip, and the yellow primrose, they 
Are gone, my sad Lcontia, to their graves, 
And April hath w 7 ept o’er them, and the voice 
