Than yonder oak might give the wind;
The graceful foliage storms may reave,[97]
The noble stem they cannot grieve.
For me,“—she stoop’d, and, looking round,
Pluck’d a blue harebell from the ground,—
“For me, whose memory scarce conveys
An image of more splendid days,
This little flower, that loves the lea,
May well my simple emblem be;
It drinks heaven’s dew as blithe as rose