There—by the mossy roots of yon old beech,
Midst the rich tuft of cowslips—see’st thou not?
There is a spray of woodbine from the tree
Just bending o’er it with a wild bee’s weight.
Child. The Arum leaf?
Father. Yes. These deep inwrought marks,
The villager will tell thee, (and with voice
Lower’d in his true heart’s reverent earnestness,)
Are the flower’s portion from th’ atoning blood
On Calvary shed. Beneath the cross it grew;