To A Withered Hare-Bell. Poem by Susan Evance

Oh! thou art chang'd, poor wither'd flower!
No more thy form of azure hue
At morning's bright and fragrant hour,
Shall smile through tears of glitt'ring dew.

No more the gently rustling breeze
Will on thy bosom love to dwell;
But mournfully among the trees
Will sigh thy sad and simple knell.

Was it some careless shepherd boy,
That sought his wandering flock around,
Who thus could all thy charms destroy,
And thoughtless crush thee to the ground?

No- on the wing, of shadowy night,
Was borne the chilling eastern blast;
Thy tender form, so fair and bright,
Shrunk trembling as it onward past.

The morn return'd with dewy beam,
Cold glimmering on thy drooping head;
Pale was the melancholy gleam,
It mourn'd each charm for ever fled.

Alas! like thee, poor wither'd flow'r!
Our earliest fondest hopes decay;
Bright is the visionary hour-
But soon, too soon, it fades away.