82 TO A PRIMROSE. 
TO A PRIMROSE. 
Flower of pale but lovely bloom, 
Given to grace my humble room, 
On my spirit’s waken’d sense 
Pour thy silent eloquence. 
Tales it tells of days gone by, 
When in spring my boyish eye 
On the bank, or in the grove, 
Gazed on thee with joy and love. 
Fairer flowers which gardens bear. 
Proud exotics rear’d with care, 
Beautiful though they may be, 
Never can compare with thee. 
Thou art rich, from memory’s store, 
With the wealth of life’s young lore; 
Lore by books but poorly taught. 
Wealth by riches never bought. 
While I look on thee, I seem 
Once more of the past to dream, 
When life’s business was but play, 
Joy—a spring-tide holiday ; 
