

ARCADIAN HYMN TO FLORA. 401 
And now the sward is full and teems with more, 
Harth never was so bounteous before ; 
Here are red roses, throwing back their hoods 
Like willing maids, to greet the kissing wind; 
And here are violets from sombre woods, 
With tears of dew within their lids enshrined, 
Lilies like little maids in bridal white, 
Or in their burial garments if you will; 
And here is that bold flower, the daffodil, 
That peers i’ th’ front of March, and daisies bright, 
The vestals of the morn, and crocuses, 
Snow-drops, like specks of foam on stormy seas, 
And yellow buttercups that gem the fields, 
Like studs of richest gold on massive shields, 
Anemones that sprang in golden years, 
(The story goes, they were not seen before,) 
Where young Adonis, tusked by the boar, 
Bled life away, and Venus rained her tears— 
(Look! in their hearts a small ensanguined spot !) 
And here is pansy and forget-me-not, 
And trim Narcissus, vain and foolish elf, 
Enamoured (would you think it 2) of himself, 
Rooted beside a erystal brook, his glass ! 
And drooping Hyacinthus, slain, alas ! 
By rudest Auster, blowing in the stead 
Of Zephyrus, then in Flora’s meshes bound, 
Pitching with bright Apollo in his ground 
He blew the discus back and struck him dead ! 
Pied wind-flowers, oxlips, and the jessamine, 



