HAREBELL. 
(Submission and Grief.) 
HIS lovely blossom merits its first meaning, but 
scarcely its last. Those who have listened to 
the faint, sweet rustle of its bells when the breeze 
passes over them, might rather think it a mirthful than a 
sad flower. And yet such has been generally the fancy 
it has given birth to in the poets. Witness the following 
charming verses: 
THE HAREBELL. 
R. HEBER. 
With drooping bells of clearest blue, 
Thou didst attract my childish view, 
Almost resembling 
The azure butterflies that flew, 
Where on the heath thy blossoms grew 
So lightly trembling. 
Where feathery fern, and golden bloom, 
Increase the sand-rock cavern’s bloom, 
I’ve seen thee tangled, 
’Mid tufts of purple heather bloom, 
By vain Arachne’s treacherous loom, 
With dewdrops spangled. 
