a - e 
= eo 
= 
FLOWERS. 61 
And, marvelling whence the strain is 
springing, 
Murmur “ how softly the wind is singing!” 
We chime too gently for ye to tell 
The silvery voice of the little Harebell. 
No rock is too high—no vale too low— 
For our fragile and tremulous forms to grow ; 
Sometimes we crown 
The castle’s dizziest tower, and look 
Laughingly down 
On the pigmy man in the world below, 
Wearily wandering to and fro. 
Sometimes we dwell on the cragged crest 
Of mountain high ; 
And the ruddy sun, from the blue sea’s 
breast 
Climbing the sky, 
Looks from his couch of glory up, 
And lights the dews in the Harebell’s cup. 
We are crowning the mountain 
With azure bells, 






















