POKTRY OF FLOWERS. i163 
re stil 
TO A PRIMROSE IN A CHURCIIYARD. 
SWEET exile of the hills ! 
What dost thou here? 
Far from thy native rills, 
And fountains clear ! 
Why is thy young perfume— 
Thy star-like bell 
Beside the silent tomb 
mes Condemned to dwell ? 
move 
ne, 
Oh ! surely thou dost love 
The tall tree’s shade,— 
The thickly foliaged grove,— 
The dewy glade :— 
The bank whereon the bee 
At noon reposes, 
Amid the luxury 
Of Summer Roses ! 
k, And, here no sheltering bowser 
A curtain weaves 
To blend in beauty o’er 
Thy tender leaves : 
aca, No drooping Violet 
Expands in glee 
Sts purple coronet 
To welcome thee } 


