Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 41 1834.pdf/17



Still are the cowslips from thy bosom springing, O far-off grassy dell! And dost thou see, When southern winds first wake the vernal singing, The star-gleam of the wood-anemone? Doth the shy ring-dove haunt thee still?—the bee Hang on thy flowers, as when I breathed farewell To their wild blooms?—and round my beechen tree Still, in rich softness, doth the moss-bank swell?— Oh, strange illusion, by the fond heart wrought, Whose own warm life suffuses Nature's face! My being's tide of many-coloured thought Hath pass'd from thee; and now, green, flowery place, I paint thee oſt, scarce consciously, a scene Silent, forsaken, dim—shadow’d by what hath been.