163 THE FOETKY OF FLOWERS. 
TO THE PRIMROSE. 
BY BIDLAKE, 
Pale visitant of balmy spring, 
Joy of the new-born year, 
That bidd’st young hope new-plume bin wing, 
Soon as thy buds appear: 
While o’er the incense-breathing sky 
The tepid hours first dare to fly, 
And vainly woo the chilling breeze 
That, bred in winter’s frozen lan,. 
Still struggling chains tne lingering sap 
Within the widow’d t*-ee8- 
Remote from towns, thy transient life 
Is spent in skies more pure ; 
The suburb smoke, the seat of strife, 
Thou canst but ill endure. 
Coy rustic ! thou art blooming found 
Where artless nature’s charms abound, 
Sweet neighbour of the chanter rill; 
Well pleased to sip the silvery tide, 
Or nodding o’er the fountain’s side, 
Self-gazing, look thy fill; 
