COWSLIP. 
37 
Oh, Art is but a scanty rill 
That genial seasons scarcely fill, 
But Nature needs no tide’s return 
To fill afresh her flowing urn : 
She gathers all her rich supplies 
Where never-failing fountains rise. 
COWSLIPS. 
MARY HOWITT. 
Oh ! fragrant dwellers of the lea, 
When first the wildwood rings 
With each sound of vernal minstrelsy, 
When fresh the green grass springs ! 
What can the blessed spring restore 
More gladdening than your charms, 
Bringing the memory once more 
Of lovely fields and farms ! 
Of thickets, breezes, birds, and flowers; 
Of life’s unfolding prime; 
Of thoughts as cloudless as the hours; 
Of souls without a crime. 
Oh ! blessed, blessed do ye seem, 
For, even now, I turned 
With soul athirst for wood and stream, 
From streets that glared and burned. 
From the hot town, where mortal care 
His crowded fold doth pen ; 
Where stagnates the polluted air 
In many a sultry den. 
