THE WHITE POPPY. 
183 
Whilst thou, when we do suffer 
The doom we’ve earn’d too well, 
O’er present woes and past 
With kindly zeal doth cast 
Thy bland oblivious spell. 
And then, ah ! then, thy story, 
That puts the rose to shame ; 
For who her wreath hath worn, 
Nor felt how sharp the thorn 
Which guards her graceful stem ? 
Whilst e’en to him who wounds thee *, 
With meek forgiveness, thou 
Dost yield a precious balm 
Ilis weary frame to calm 
In sickness or in woe. 
But, fare thee well! thy annals 
Bid holier memories rise ; 
I turn me to a page, 
Which should alone engage 
All hearts, and fix all eyes. 
* See the description of the manner in which opium is procured, p. 181. 
