AND FLOWERS OF POETRY. 67 
In dewy glades, 
The peering primrose, like sudden gladness, 
Gleams on the soul — yet unregarded fades — 
The joy is ours, but all its own the sadness. 
H. Coleridge. 
This plant has been sung by many of our best poets, but by 
none so well as he from whose delightful poems we have al¬ 
ready quoted at the commencement of this article. The fol¬ 
lowing lines are extracted from a piece addressed to a friend 
with an early primrose: — 
Accept this primrose, friend ; it is a pledge 
Of the returning spring. What though the wind— 
The dread east wind — passed over the shivering earth, 
And shook from his deep rustling wings the snows, 
And bound the streamlets and the rivers all 
In crystal fetters ! What though infancy, 
And age, and vigorous manhood, felt the blast 
Before which many a human blossom fell! 
Yet our fine Devon, in a sunny nook, 
Cherished this flower; and when the soft west wind 
Came with its balmy breath and gentle showers, 
With simple grace this firstborn of the year 
Waved its pale yellow star; and, lo! for thee 
I plucked the welcome stranger. _ 
Sometimes, alas! we see a lady matured in years, whose 
beauty has been marred by the ravages of time, decking herself 
in the gay habiliments of youth; such a one may be compared 
to the primrose in autumn, whose untimely presence is reprov¬ 
ed in the following agreeable sonnet. It is by R. F. Housman, 
and was originally published in the Athenaeum: — 
The solitary primrose hath come back 
To haunt the green nooks of her happy spring. 
Alas! it is a melancholy thing, 
Thus to return, and vainly strive to track 
The playmates of our youth! Whither have fled 
The sweet companions of her vernal hours? 
The bee, the infant leaves, the golden flowers, 
