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An instinct call it, a blind sense;
A happy, genial influence,
Coming one knows not how nor whence,
Nor whither going.
Child of the Year! that round dost run
Thy course, bold lover of the sun,
And cheerful when the day's begun
As morning Leveret,
[1]Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain;
Dear shalt thou be to future men
As in old time;—thou not in vain,
Art Nature's Favorite.
- ↑ See, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honours formerly paid to this flower.
