fty Stosrimft. 
Keble. 
W HEN Nature tries her finest touch, 
Weaving her vernal wreatn, 
Mark ye; how close she veils her round, 
Not to be traced by sight or sound, 
Nor soiled by ruder breath? 
Who ever saw the earliest rose 
First open her sweet breast ? 
Or when the Summer sun goes down, 
The first soft star in evening’s crown, 
Light up her gleaming crest ? 
Fondly we seek the dawning bloom 
On features wan and fair, 
The gazing eye no change can trace. 
But look away a little space, 
Then turn, and lo ! ’tis there. 
