POETRY OF FLOWEPtS. 
167 
TO A PRIMROSE IN A CHURCHYARD. 
Sweet exile of the hills! 
What dost thou here ? 
Far from thy native rills, 
And fountains clear! 
Why is thy young perfume— 
Thy star-like bell 
Beside the silent tomb 
Condemned to dwell ? 
Oh ! surely thou dost love 
The tall tree’s shade,— 
The thickly foliaged grove,— 
The dewy glade:— 
The bank whereon the bee 
At noon reposes. 
Amid the luxury 
Of Summer Roses! 
And, here no sheltering bower 
A curtain weaves 
To blend in beauty o’er 
Thy tender leaves ; 
No drooping Violet 
Expands in glee 
Its purple coronet 
To welcome thee! 
