SNOWDROP. 7 



The night breeze tears thy silky dress, 

 Which deck'd with silv'ry lustre shone ; 



The moon returns, not thee to Mess — 



The gaudy Crocus flaunts its pride, 



And triumphs, where its rival died 

 Unshelter'd and unknown ! 



Where'er I find thee, gentle flow'r, 



Thou still art sweet and dear to me! 

 For I have known the cheerless hour, 

 Have seen the sunbeams cold and pale, 

 Have felt the chilling wintry gale, 



And wept and shrunk like thee ! 



Mary Robinson". 



Less melancholy, but not less plaintive, are the 

 lines of Mrs. Charlotte Smith, on this pale flower, 

 which her pen thus pictures : — 



Like pendent flakes of vegetating snow, 



The early herald of the infant year, 

 Ere yet th' adventurous Crocus dares to blow, 



Beneath the orchard boughs thy buds appear. 



While still the cold north-east ungenial lowers, 

 And scarce the hazel in the leafless copse, 



Or sallows show their downy powdered flowers, 

 The grass is spangled with thy silver drops. 



Yet when those pallid blossoms shall give place 

 To countless tribes, of richer hue and scent, 



Summer's gay blooms, and Autumn's yellow race, 

 I shall thy pale, inodorous bells lament. 



So journeying onward in life's varying track, 

 Even while warm youth its bright illusion lends, 



Fond memory often with regret looks back 

 To childhood's pleasures, and to infant friends. 



Of this early flowering bulb, Cordelia Skeeles 

 says, — 



