
US 
ho, Tse; 
love di f 
at fame, 
Dears bist 
rom e th 
W088 
POU by, 
of nature, 
oping fone 
n the ste 
look'd 
cissis! 
ny Nateiy 
y though, 
in teary, 
n het 
ve gaze, 
1 reflect 
truth 
ary an thy 
rel ee 


Why did the gods give thee a heavenly form 
And earthly thoughts to make thee rroud of it ¢ 
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 rieh 
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, 
‘¢ For me,”’—she stoop’d, and looking round, 
Pluck’d a blue harebell from the ground,—- 
‘‘For me, whose memory scarce conveys 
THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
ieee geen 
THE HAREBELL. 
BY SCOTT. 
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 sc fair,” 
a 
















