164 Floral Poetry. 
THE PRIMROSE. 
Y SAW it in my evening walk 
T 
A 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 fret-work sprung, 
Where jewelled 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 there, 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 sunbeam on that fairy pool 
Darted its dazzling light—— 
Only, methought, some clear, cold star 
Might tremble there at night. 
