
THE GARDEN. 
And, as it works, th’ industrious bee 
Computes his time as well as we. 
How could such sweet and wholesome hours 
Be reckon’d but with herbs and flowers? 
SH lowers. 
Barry Cornwall. 
\ E have left behind us, 
The riches of the meadows,—and now come 
To visit the virgin primrose where she dwells, 
'Midst, harebells and the wild-wood hyacinths. 
Tis here she keeps her court. Dost see yon bank 
The sun is kissing? Near,—go near! for there, 
(Neath those broad leaves, amidst yon straggling grasses), 
Immaculate odors from the violet 
Spring up for ever! Like sweet thoughts that come 
Winged from the maiden fancy, and fly off 
In music to the skies, and there are lost, 
These ever-steaming odors seek the sun, 
And fade in the light he scatters 



