I 
THE PRIMROSE. 
35 
Innocence shines in the Lily’s bell, 
Pure as the heart in its native heaven; 
Fame’s bright star and glory’s swell. 
In the glossy leaf of the Bay are given. 
The silent, soft, and humble heart, 
In the Violet’s hidden sweetness breathes ; 
And the tender soul that cannot part, 
A twine of Evergreen fondly wreathes. 
The Cypress that daily shades the grave, 
Is sorrow that mourns her bitter lot; 
And faith that a thousand ills can brave, 
Speaks in thy blue leaves, Forget-me-not. 
Then gather a wreath from the garden 
bowers, 
And tell the wish of thy heart in flowers. 
—Pkrcival. 
THE PRIMROSE. 
The milk-white blossoms of the thorn 
Are waving o’er the pool, 
Moved by the wind that breathes along 
So sweetly and so cool. 
