SNOW-DROP. 63 



'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 shower, 

 Thy soft form in sweetness grows; 



Not more fair the valley's treasure, 

 Not more sweet her lily blows. 



Drooping harbinger of Flora, 

 Simply are thy blossoms drest; 



Artless as the gentle virtues, 



Mansion'd in the blameless breast. 



When to pure and timid virtue 

 Friendship twines a votive wreath. 



O'er the fair selected garden 



Thou thy perfume soft shalt breathe. 



The same. — MONTGOMERr. 



Winter, retire! 



Thy reign is past ; 



Hoary Sire ! 



Yield the sceptre of thy sway, 



Sound thy trumpet in the blast. 



And call thy storms away : 



Winter, retire ! 



Wherefore do thy wheels delay? 



Mount the chariot of thine ire, 



And quit the realms of day ; 



