162 
the poetry of flowers. 
TO THE PRIMROSE. 
BY BIDLAKE, 
Pale visitant of balmy spring, 
Joy of the new-born year, 
That bidd’st young hope new-plume his 
Soon as thy buds appear: 
While o’er the incense-breathing sky 
The tepid hours first dare to fly^ 
And vainly woo the chilling breeze 
That, bred in winter’s frozen Ian. 
Still struggling cnains tne lingering sap 
Within the widow’d fees. 
Remote from towns, thy transient life 
Is spent in skies more pure ; 
The suburb smoke, the seat of strife, 
Thou canst but ill endure. 
Coy rustic ! thou art blooming found 
Where artless nature’s charms abound, 
Sweet neighbour of the chanter ril!; 
Well pleased to sip the silvery tide, 
Or nodding o’er the fountain’s side] 
Self-gazing, look thy fill; 
