CELANDINE. 
129 
Comfort have thou of thy merit, 
Kindly, unassuming spirit! 
Careless of thy neighbourhood, 
Thou dost show thy pleasant face 
On the moor, and in the wood, 
In the lane — there’s not a place, 
Howsoever mean it be, 
But ’t is good enough for thee. 
Ill befall the yellow flowers, 
Children of the flaring hours I 
Buttercups, that will be seen, 
Whether we will see or no; 
Others, too, of lofty mien: 
They have done as worldlings do, 
Taken praise that should be thine. 
Little, humble Celandine! 
Prophet of delight and mirth 
Scorn’d and slighted upon earth! 
Herald of a mighty band, 
Of a joyous train ensuing, 
Singing at my heart’s command, 
In the lanes my thoughts pursuing, 
t will sing, as doth behove, 
Hymns in praise of what I love! 
12* 
