“ At length the finished garden to the view 
Its vistas opens, and its alleys green. 
Along these blushing borders, bright with dew, 
And in yon mingled wilderness of flowers, 
Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace, 
Throws out the snowdrop and the crocus first: 
The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue, 
And polyanthus of unnumbered dyes: 
The yellow wall-flower, stained with iron brown; 
And lavish stock that scents the garden round : 
From the soft wing of vernal breezes shed, 
Anemonies; auriculas, enriched 
With shining meal o’er all their velvet leaves; 
And full ranunculus, of glowing red. 
Then comes the tulip race, where beauty plays 
Her idle freaks ; from family diffused 
To family, as flies the fatlier-dust, 
The varied colors run ; and while they break 
On the charm’d eye, th’ exulting florist marks, 
With secret pride, the wonders of his hand. 
No gradual bloom is wanting ; from the bud, 
First-born of Spring, to Summer’s musky tribes: 
Nor hyacinths, of purest virgin white, 
Low-bent, and blushing inward ; nor jonquils, 
Of potent fragrance; nor Narcissus fair, 
As o’er the fabled fountain hanging still; 
Nor broad carnations, nor gay-spotted pinks; 
Nor, shower’d from every bush, the damask-rose. 
Infinite numbers, delicacies, smells, 
With hues on hues expression cannot paint, 
The breath of Nature, and her endless bloom.” 
Thomson's Seasons. 
