76 
THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
And then, 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 ruffling wind could reach her there; 
No eye, methought, but mine, 
Or the young lambs that came to drink, 
Had spied her secret shrine. 
And there was pleasantness to me 
In such belief—cold eyes 
That slight dear Nature’s loveliness, 
Profane her mysteries. 
THE EARLY PRIMROSE. 
HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire! 
Wnose modest form, so delicately fine, 
Was nursed in whirling storms, 
And cradled in the winds. 
Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter’s 
sway; 
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, 
Thee on this bank he threw, 
To mark his victory. 
