TO THE HAREBELL. 
Sweet flower! though many a ruthless storm 
Sweep fiercely o’er thy slender form. 
And many a sturdier plant may how 
In death beneath the tempest’s blow, 
Submissive thou, in pensive guise. 
Uninjur’d by each gale shalt rise, 
And, deck’d with innocence, remain 
The fairest tenant of the plain: 
So conscious of its lowly state. 
Trembles the heart assail’d by fate; 
Yet, when the freezing blast is o’er, 
Settles as tranquil as before; 
While the proud breast no peace shall find, 
No refuge for a troubled mind. 
