COWSLIPS.—A SONNET.

COWSLIPS—sweet Cowslips! I scarce know a flower

More prized than is the cowslip. Childhood's hand

Plucks it as if by instinct. Every land

Has some peculiar flowret—this the bower,

The mountain that adorning. April's shower

The modest primrose sifts with beauty bland,

Or o'er the blue-bell waves her fairy wand,

The delegate of Flora's magic power.

But most love I the cowslip, with its fair

And fragrant petals, studding, as with gold,

The emerald meadow, or the hedge-row green;

For, while the laugh of Infancy is there,

The heart must be as very marble cold

Of him who frowns on such a joyous scene.