HAREBELL. 
205 
The ivy lives long, but its home must be 
Where graves and ruins are spread ; 
There’s beauty about the cypress-tree, 
But it flourishes near the dead ; 
The laurel the warrior’s brow may wreathe. 
But it tells of fears and blood. 
I sing the holly—and who can breathe 
Aught of that that is not good ? 
HAREBELL 
{Submission and Grief.) 
HIS lovely blossom merits its first meaning, but 
scarcely its last. Those who have listened to the 
faint, sweet rustle of its bells when the breeze passes 
over them, might rather think it a mirthful than a sad 
flower. And yet such has been generally the fancy it 
has given birth to in the poets. Witness the following 
charming verses: 
THE HAREBELL. 
R. HEBER. 
With drooping bells of clearest blue 
Thou didst attract my childish view, 
Almost resembling 
The azure butterflies that flew 
Where on the heath thy blossoms grew, 
So lightly trembling. 
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