THE HAREBELL. 
87 
Where pride and pomp have pass’d away, 
On mossy tomb and turret grey, 
Like friendship clinging. 
When glow-worm lamps illume the scene, 
And silvery daisies dot the green. 
Thy flowers revealing; 
Perchance to soothe the fairy-queen, 
With faint sweet tones, on night serene, 
Thy soft bells pealing. 
But most I love thine azure braid, 
When softer flowers are all decay’d, 
And thou appearest, 
Stealing beneath the hedgerow shade, 
Like joys that linger as they fade, 
Whose last are dearest. 
Thou art the flower of memory ; 
The pensive soul recals in thee 
The year’s past pleasures ; 
And led by kindred thought will flee, 
Till back to careless infancy 
The path she measures. 
Beneath autumnal breezes bleak, 
So faintly fair, so sadly meek, 
I’ve seen thee bending ; 
