52 
The balmy vapour from their silver croppis,^ 
Distilland wholesome sugar’d honey-droppis, 
So that ilk burgeon, scion, herb, or flower, 
Wox all embalmed of the fresh liquoure. 
And bathed did in dulce humoures flete. 
Whereof the beeis wrought their honey sweet. 
Leaving the old Bards, I shall now introduce one of the 
loveliest flow'er scenes ever painted by poet’s pen, and which 
has few rivals, even among the bright and beautiful creations 
of its author. It is a di’eara of Spring Flowers, by Percy 
Bysshe Shelley. 
I dreamed that, as I wandered by the w'ay, 
Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring, 
And gentle odours led my steps astray. 
Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring 
Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay 
Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling 
Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, \ 
But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest in a dream. 
There grew pied wind-flow'ers and violets, 
Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth. 
The constellated flower that never sets; 
Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth 
’I'he sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets 
Its mother’s face with heaven-collected tears. 
When the low wind, its playmate’s voice, it hears. 
And in the w^arm hedge grew lush eglantine. 
Green cow-bind, and the moonlight-coloured May, 
And cherry blossoms, and wdiite cups, wdiose wine 
Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day ; 
s Croppis —heads. 
