FLORAL. POESY. 
O’er which it well might take a pleasant sleep, 
But that ’tis ever startled by the leap 
Of buds into ripe flowers. 
SAD PRIMROSES. 
PROFESSOR WILSON. 
But we have daisies, which, like love 
Or hope, spring everywhere ; 
And primroses, which droop above 
Some self-consuming care. 
So sad, so spiritual, so pale, 
Born all too near the snow, 
They pine for that sweet southern gale, 
Which they will never know. 
TO A PRIMROSE. 
PRESENTED TO A FRIEND IN JANUARY, 
CARRINGTON, 
SwEET herald of the ever gentle spring, 
How gently waved o’er thee the winter’s wing ! 
Around thee blew the warm Favonian gale, 
Devonia nursed thee in her loveliest vale; 
Beneath she rolled the Plym’s pellucid stream, 
And heaven diffused around its quickening beam. 
But, ah ! the sun, the shower, the zephyr bland, 
Made thee but fair to tempt the spoiler’s hand. 
I cannot bear thee to thy bank again, 
And bathe thy breast in soft refreshing rain, 



