68 DROPS FROM FLORA’S CUP. 
TO A PRIMROSE. 
BART OK. 
Flowers of pale but lovely bloom, 
Given to grace my humble room, 
On my spirit's wakened sense 
Pour thy silent eloquence. 
Tales it tells of days gone by, 
When in spring my boyish eye, 
On the bank, or in the grove, 
Gazed on thee with joy and love. 
Fairer flowers which gardens bear, 
Proud exotics reared with care, 
Beautiful though they may bo, 
Never can compare with thee. 
Thou art rich, from memory’s store, 
With the wealth of life’s young lore; 
Love by books but poorly taught, 
Wealth by riches never bought. 
