First, look upon that flow'r
The lowly heath-bell, smiling at our feet.
How beautiful it smiles alone! The Pow'r,
that bade the great sea roar--that spread the Heav'ns--
That call'd the sun from darkness--deck'd that flow'r,
And bade it grace this bleak and barren hill.
Imagination, in her playful mood,
Might liken it to a poor village maid,
Lowly, but smiling in her lowliness,
And dress'd so neatly, as if ev'ry day
Were Sunday. And some melancholy Bard
Might, idly musing, thus discourse to it:--
"Daughter of Summer, who dost linger here.
Decking the thistly turf, and arid hill,
Unseen--let the majestic Dahlia
Glitter, an Empress, in her blazonry
Of beauty; let the stately Lily shine,
As snow-white as the breast of the proud Swan,
Sailing upon the blue lake silently,
That lifts her tall neck higher, as she views
The shadow in the stream! Such ladies bright
May reign unrivall'd, in their proud parterres!
Thou would'st not live with them; but if a voice,
Fancy, in shaping mood, might give to thee,
To the forsaken Primrose, thou would'st say,
'Come, live with me, and we two will rejoice:--
Nor want I company; for when the sea
Shines in the silent moonlight, elves and fays,
Gentle and delicate as Ariel,
That do their spiritings on these wild bolts--
Circle me in their dance, and sing such songs
As human ear ne'er heard!'"--But cease the strain,
Lest Wisdom, and severer Truth, should chide.
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