the poetry of flowers. 
191 
Why did the gods give thee a heavenly form 
And earthly thoughts to make thee proud of it 1 
Why do I ask ? ’Tis now the known disease 
That beauty hath, to bear too deep a sense 
Of her own self-conceived excellence. 
Oh hadst thou known the worth of Heaven’s rich 
gift, 
Thou wouldst have turn’d it to a truer use, 
And not (with starved and covetous ignorance) 
Pined in continual eyeing that bright gem, 
The glance whereof to others had been more 
Than to thy famish’d mind the wide world’s store. 
THE HAREBELL. 
BY SCOTT. 
“ For me,”—she stoop’d, and looking round, 
Pluck’d a blue harebell from the ground,— 
“ For me, whose memory scarce conveys 
An image of more splendid days, 
This little flower, that loves the lea, 
May well my simple emblem be ; 
It drinks heaven’s dew, blithe as the rose 
1 hat in the king’s own garden grows; 
And when I place it in my hair, 
Allan, a bard is bound to swear 
He ne’er saw coronet sc fair.” 
