VII. TO THE SAME FLOWER. PLEASURES newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet: February last, my heart 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. I have not a doubt but he, Soon as gentle breezes bring And the children build their bowers, Often have I sighed to measure 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, Bright as any of the train When ye all are out again. Thou art not beyond the moon, But a thing" beneath our shoon:" Praise it is enough for me, Who will love my little Flower. VIII. THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE. "BEGONE, thou fond presumptuous Elf," Exclaimed a thundering Voice, "Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self Between me and my choice!" A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose, That, all bespattered with his foam, And dancing high and dancing low, Was living, as a child might know, "Dost thou presume my course to block? Off, off! or, puny Thing! I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock To which thy fibres cling." The Flood was tyrannous and strong; The patient Briar suffered long, Nor did he utter groan or sigh, Hoping the danger would be past: But, seeing no relief, at last He ventured to reply. "Ah!" said the Briar, " blame me not; Why should we dwell in strife? We who in this sequestered spot Once lived a happy life! You stirred me on my rocky bed— What pleasure through my veins you spread! Nor was it common gratitude That did your cares repay. |