THE WINTER NOSEGAY. 



What Nature, alas ! has denied 



To the delicate growth of our isle, 

 Art has in a measure supplied, 



And Winter is deck'd with a smile. 

 See, Mary, what beauties I bring 



From the shelter of that sunny shed, 

 Where the flowers have the charms of the spring, 



Though abroad they are frozen and dead. 



Tis a bower of Arcadian sweets. 



Where Flora is still in her prime ; 

 A fortress to which she retreats. 



From the cruel assaults of the clime. 

 While earth wears a mantle of snow, 



These pinks are as fresh and as gay 

 As the fairest and sweetest that blow 



On the beautiful bosom of May. 



