On Flora’s Horologe, by Charlotte Smith.
In every copse and sheltered dell,
Unveiled to the observant eye,
Are faithful monitors, who tell
How pass the hours and seasons by.
The green-robed children of the Spring
Will mark the periods as they pass,
Mingle with leaves Time’s feathered wing,
And bind with flowers his silent glass.
Mark where transparent waters glide,
Soft flowing o’er their tranquil bed;
There, cradled on the dimpling tide,
Nymphæa rests her lovely head.
But conscious of the earliest beam,
She rises from her humid nest,
And sees reflected in the stream
The virgin whiteness of her breast.
Till the bright Daystar to the west
Declines, in Ocean’s surge to lave:
Then, folded in her modest vest,
She slumbers on the rocking wave.
See Hieracium’s various tribe,
Of plumy seed and radiate flowers,
The course of Time their blooms describe,
And wake or sleep appointed hours.
Broad o’er its imbricated cup
The Goatsbeard spreads its golden rays
But shuts its cautious petals up,
Retreating from the noontide blaze.
Pale as a pensive cloistered nun,
The Bethlem Star her face unveils,
When o’er the mountain peers the Sun,
But shades it from the vesper gales.
Among the loose and arid sands
The humble Arenaria creeps;
Slowly the Purple Star expands,
But soon within its calyx sleeps.