TIIE PlilMKOSE. 
45 
“ The flower you seek,” the nymph replies, 
“Has bow’d the languid head; 
For on its bloom the blazing skies 
Their sultry rage have shed. 
“ ’Tis now the downward withering day 
Of winter’s dull presage, 
That seeks not where the dogstar’s ray 
Has shed his fiercest rage. 
“ Yet seek yon shade, obscure, forlorn. 
Where rude the bramble grows; 
There shaded by the humble thorn. 
The lingering Primrose blows.” 
Mickle. 
Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire. 
Whose modest form, so delicately fine, 
Was nursed in whirling storms, 
And cradled in the winds. 
Thee, when young Spring first question’d Winter’s sway. 
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight. 
Thee on this bank he threw. 
To mark his victory. 
In this low vale, the promise of the year. 
Serene thou openest to the nipping gale. 
Unnoticed and alone, 
0 
Thy tender elegance. 
