Sometimes we crown

The castle's dizziest tower, and look

Laughingly down

On the pigmy men in the world below,
Wearily wandering to and fro.

Sometimes we dwell on the cragged crest

Of mountain high;

And the ruddy sun, from the blue sea's breast
Climbing the sky,

Looks from his couch of glory up,

And lights the dew in the Harebell's cup.

We are crowning the mountain

With azure bells,

Or decking the fountain

In forest dells,

Or wreathing the ruin with clusters gay,
And nodding and laughing the live-long day,
Then chiming our lullaby, tired with play.

Are we not beautiful? Oh! are not we
The darlings of mountain, and moorland, and lea?
Plunge in the forest-are we not fair?

Go to the high road-we'll meet ye there.

Oh! where is the flower that content may tell

Like the laughing, and, nodding, and dancing Hare

bell?

FOXGLOVES AND FERN.

The Foxgloves and the Fern,
How gracefully they grow,

With grand old oaks above them,
And wavy grass below!

The stately trees stand round

Like columns fair and high,

And the spreading branches bear
A glorious canopy

Of leaves, that rustling wave

In the whispering summer air, And gaily greet the sunbeams

That are falling brightly there. The miser-leaves! - they suffer

Not a gleam to twinkle through,
And in the Foxglove's hairy cup,
At noonday, drops of dew
Are hanging round like tears
Of sorrow, that the sun
Gives to other flowers his kisses

But to her soft lips not one.
Yet are they wondrous sweet,
As the honey-bee knows well.
When murmuring all busily,

Hid in each purple bell