Shall be forgotten, like a churchyard stone, 
Or lingering lie unnoticed and alone, 
When eighteen hundred years, our common date. 
Grow many thousands in their marching state, 
Ay, still the child, with pleasure in his eye, 
Shall cry—the daisy! — a familiar cry — 
And run to pluck it, in the selfsame state 
As when Time found it in his infant date; 
And, like a child himself, when all was new, 
Might smile with wonder, and take notice too; 
Its little golden bosom frilled with snow, 
Might win e’en Eve to stoop adown, and show 
Her partner, Adam, in the silky grass, 
The little gem, that smiled where pleasure was, 
And loving Eve, from Eden followed ill, 
And bloomed with sorrow, and lives smiling still; 
As once in Eden, under heaven’s breath, 
So new on earth, and on the lap of death, 
