Comfort have thou of thy merit, Thou dost shew thy pleasant face But 'tis good enough for thee. Ill befal the yellow Flowers, Others, too, of lofty mien ; They have done as worldlings do, Taken praise that should be thine, Little, humble Celandine! Prophet of delight and mirth, Scorned and slighted upon earth! Herald of a mighty band, Of a joyous train ensuing, Singing at my heart's command, I will sing, as doth behove, VI. TO THE SAME FLOWER. PLEASURES newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet: First at sight of thee was glad; All unheard of as thou art, Thou must needs, I think, have had, Celandine! and long ago, Praise of which I nothing know. Whosoe'er the man might be, Who the first with pointed rays, (Workman worthy to be sainted) Soon as gentle breezes bring And the children build their bowers, Often have I sighed to measure Thy bright coronet and Thee, And thy arch and wily ways, And thy store of other praise. Blithe of heart, from week to week Thou dost play at hide-and-seek; While the patient Primrose sits Like a Beggar in the cold, Thou, a Flower of wiser wits, Slipp'st into thy shelter'd hold; Bright as any of the train When ye all are out again. Thou art not beyond the moon, But a thing "beneath our shoon:" Let, as old Magellan did, Others roam about the sea; Build who will a pyramid; Praise it is enough for me, If there be but three or four Who will love my little Flower. VII. THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE. "BEGONE, thou fond presumptuous Elf," Exclaimed a thundering Voice, "Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self A falling Water swoln with snows |