 | Poems |  |
TO THE EVENING PRIMROSE.
Pale Primrose!—lingering for the evening starTo bless thee with its beam,—like some fair child
Who, ere he rests on Morpheus' downy car,
Doth wait his mother's blessing, pure and mild,
To hallow his gay dream.—His red lips breathe
The prompted prayer, fast by that parent's knee,
Even as thou rear'st thy sweetly fragrant wreath
To matron Evening, while she smiles on thee.—
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His benison upon thy bosom fair,
The dews of Summer bathe thy pensive head,
And weary man forgets his daily care;—
Sleep on, my rose! till morning gild the sky,
And bright Aurora's kiss unseal thy trembling eye.
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