86 
The Poetry 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 his 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 lap, 
Still struggling chains the lingering sap 
Within the widowed trees. 
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; 
Or, on the dingle’s shadowy steep, 
The gaudy Furze beneath, 
Thy modest beauties sweetly peep, 
Thy chaster odours breathe. 
From luxury we turn aside, 
From wealth and ostentatious pride, 
With many an emblematic thorn, 
Thy humbler mien well pleased to meet; 
Like competence in blest retreat, 
Thy smiles the Spring adorn. 
