192 FLORA AND THALIA. 



Oh ! keep the morning of his incarnation, 

 The burning noontide of his bitter passion, 

 The night of his descending, and the height 

 Of his ascension, — ever in my sight. 

 That imitating him in what I may, 

 I never follow an inferior way. 



WITHERS. 



TO THE CROCUS. 



Lowly, sprightly Uttle flower! 



Herald of a brighter bloom. 

 Bursting in a sunny hour, 



From thy winter tomb. 



Hues you bring, bright, gay, and tender, 



As if never to decay ; 

 Fleeting is their varied splendour, — 



Soon, alas ! it fades away. 



Thus, the hopes I long had cherished. 

 Thus, the friends. I long had known, 



One by one, like you, have perished ; 

 Blighted — I must fade alone. 



H. TATTEHSON. 



Belfast. 



