Classic Poem

We have left, behind us,
The riches of the meadows,—and now come
To visit the virgin Primrose where she dwells,
'Midst harebells and the wild-wood hyacinths.
'Tis here she keeps her court. Dost see yon bank
The sun is kissing? Near,—go near! for there,
('Neath those broad leaves, amidst yon straggling grasses,)
Immaculate odours from the violet
Spring up for ever! Like sweet thoughts that come
Winged from the maiden fancy, and fly off
In music to the skies, and there are lost,
These ever-steaming odours seek the sun,
And fade in the light he scatters.