






814 POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
They are but of the field, yet God 
Has clothed them as you see ! 
O how much more, immortal souls, 
Will He not care for ye? 
THE HAREBELL. 
‘* For me,”—she stooped, and, looking round, 
Plucked 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 
That 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 so fair.” 
THE EVENING PRIMROSE. 
THERE are that love the shades of life, 
And shun the splendid walks of fame; 
There are that hold it rueful strife 
To risk Ambition’s losing game; 
