TO THE PRIMROSE. 
' ANON. 
Makk in yonder thorny vale, 
Fearless of the falling snows, 
Careless of the chilly gale, 
Passing sweet the Primrose blows. 
Milder gales and warmer beams 
May the gaudier flow’rets rear; 
But to me the Primrose seems 
Proudest gem that decks the year. 
THE EARLY PRIMROSE 
H. K. WHITE. 
Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire! 
Whose modest form, so delicately fine, 
Was nursed in whirling storms, 
And cradled in the winds. 
Thee, when young Spring first question’d Winter’s sway, 
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, 
Thee on this bank he threw, 
To mark his victory. 
In this low vale, the promise of the year, 
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, 
Unnoticed and alone, 
Thy tender elegance. 
