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Though no warm, or murmuring zephyr, 

 Fan thy leaves with balmy wing: 



Pleas'd, 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-rob'd flow'r, in lonely beauty, 



Rising from a wintry bed ; 

 Chilling winds, and blasts ungenial, 



Rudely threatening round thy head. 



Silv'ry bud, thy pensile foliage, 

 Seems the angry blaft 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 shower, 

 Thy soft form in sweetness grows; 



Not more fair the valley's treasure, 

 Nor 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. 



Cordelia Skeeles. 



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