PRIMROSE. 
63 
No other flower, no rival grew 
Beside my pensive maid; 
She dwelt alone, a cloister’d nun 
In solitude and shade. 
No sunbeam on that fairy pool, 
Darted its dazzling light; 
Only, methought, some clear, cold star, 
Might tremble there at night. 
No ruffling wind could reach her there, 
No eye, methought, but mine; 
Or the young lambs that came to drink, 
Had spied her secret shrine. 
And there was pleasantness to me 
In such belief; — cold eyes 
That slight dear Nature’s loveliness, 
Profane her mysteries. 
Long time I look’d and linger’d there, 
Absorb’d in still delight; 
My spirit drank deep quietness 
In with that quiet sight. 
The same .— clare. 
Welcome, pale Primrose! starting up between 
Dead matted leaves of ash and oak, that strew 
The very lawn, the wood, and spinney through, 
’Mia creeping moss and ivy’s darker green: 
6 * 
