HARE-BELL. 
263 
But when the whirl-wind soundeth 
A strong tempestuous blast, 
Its head it gently boweth 
’Till the angry wind hath past. 
Then from the stormy conflict, 
With winning, quiet grace, 
Unharmed, once more it riseth 
To its own accustomed place. 
For He, to whom it oweth 
The beauty of its form. 
Hath in His goodness given 
The strength to meet the storm. 
I love this little flowret. 
And in its yielding grace, 
Oft in my thoughtful fancy 
Imagine I can trace 
Resemblance to a dear one. 
Who hath in real life. 
Bowed with such calm submission 
To storms of angry strife. 
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