162 
1HE FOETRV OF FLOWERS. 
TO THE PRTMROSE. 
BF BIDLAKE. 
Pale visitant of balm)' spring, 
Joy of the new-born year, 
That bidd’st young hope new-plume his wing 
Soon as thy buds appear: 
While o’er the incense-breathing sky 
The tepid hours first dare to fly, 
And vainly woo the chilling breeze 
That, bred in winter’s frozen lap. 
Still-struggling cnains tne lingering sap 
Within the widow’d I'pcb. 
Remote from towns, thy transient life 
Is spent in skies more pure ; 
The suburb smoke, the seat of strife, 
Thou canst but ill endure. 
Coy rustic ! thou art blooming found 
Where artless nature’s charms abound, 
Sweet neighbour of the chanter ril!; 
Well pleased to sip the silvery tide. 
Or nodding o’er the fountain’s side, 
Self-gazing, look thy fill; 
