FLORA HISTORICA. 



Poets still, in graceful numbers, 

 May the glowing Roses choose, 



But the Snowdrop's simple beauty 

 Better suits an humble muse. 



Earliest bud that decks the garden, 



Fairest of the fragrant race, 

 First-born child of vernal Flora, 



Seeking mild thy lowly place ; 



Though no warm or murmuring zephyr 



Fan thy leaves with balmy wing, 

 Pleased we hail thee, spotless blossom, 



Herald of the infant spring. 

 Through the cold and cheerless season, 



Soft thy tender form expands, 

 Safe in unaspiring graces, 



Foremost of the bloomy bands. 



White-robed flow'r, in lonely beauty, 



Rising from a wintry bed : 

 Chilling winds, and blasts ungenial, 



Rudely threat'ning round thy head. 



Silv'ry bud, thy pensile foliage, 

 Seems the angry blast to fear ; 



Yet secure, thy tender texture 

 Ornaments the rising year. 



No warm tints or vivid colouring 

 Paints thy bells with gaudy pride ; 



Mildly charm'd, we seek thy fragrance, 

 Where no thorns insidious hide. 



'Tis not thine with flaunting beauty 

 To attract the roving sight, — 



Nature, from her varied wardrobe, 

 Chose thy vest of purest white. 



White as falls the fleecy show'r, 

 Thy soft form in sweetness grows ; 



Not more fair the valley's treasure, 

 Nor more sweet her Lily blows. 



