56 
THE FLORIST AND POMOLOGIST. 
[ March,, 
The ice-bound earth, see how the Snowdrop 
bares 
Her hardy bosom to the frosts of heaven, 
Not long to pine in solitude I Impelled 
By pleasing rivalry, the emulous Crocus, 
In cloth-of-gold or purple vest bedight. 
Steps gaily forth, and boldly challenges 
Old Winter to the combat. He, secm*e 
In rugged veteran strength, looks gi'imly down, 
Contemptuous, on the stripling, as, of yore. 
The pagan giant smiled, with proud disdain. 
On Israel’s shepherd-champion. But the 
“ man 
Of war ” confronts an agile foe, who seizes 
The veil of Spring, and with a dexterous cast 
Involves the hoary tyrant in its folds, 
And half obscures the terrors of his form. 
Soon as the wreathed snow dissolves away. 
Death-smitten by the dart of vernal sun. 
The liberal earth again unlocks her casket, 
And scatters widely, with unsparing hand. 
Her treasures hoarded well and thriftily,— 
Gems of suipassing lustre. Shrinking now. 
Abashed to meet the rapturous gaze of light, 
The Lily op the Vale, clothed like a bride. 
Peeps from her lowly bower, scarce recognized 
Amid its circling verdure, waiting there 
The morning splendour and the dews of eve. 
Quail not, thou timid one, nor shun the glance 
That joys to dwell upon thee ! Virtue knows 
No fear ; and pure unspotted Innocence 
May stand erect throughout the sultry hour. 
Despite the burden and the heat of day. 
Nor less your beauty, unpretending flowers, 
“ Wee, modest, crimson-tipped,” that deck the 
meads 
With infinite profusion, whispering low 
Of gales aU softness and of hours all sun ! 
Humble although ye be, yet are ye dear 
To every heart: in eveiy ear your name. 
Lisped by the prattling tongue of infancy, 
Soundeth “ familiar as a household word.” 
Ay, little children love you weU; and that 
Which doth attract their love must ever bo 
A richly cherished object. Poets too— 
Whose souls are oftentimes more near akin 
To those of children than the world doth 
dream— 
Have marked your simple graces, nor withheld 
The tribute of them numbers. Even so 
Your fame approaches to the pinnacle 
Of immortality; for ye did prompt 
One of the sweetest of those deathless songs 
W'arbled by Caledonia’s peasant bard. 
But though, amid these ornaments of earth. 
Each boasts its separate charm, none may 
presume 
To rival the attractions of the Rose. 
Magnificence and grace ineffable 
Pervade her foim; therewith she mingles hues 
Of every shade denoting life and love 
And healthful animation;—from the pure 
Transparent white abiding on the brow 
Of thoughtful maiden—to the delicate blush 
Suffusing her pale cheek, enkindled there 
From that mysterious flame which permeates- 
The subtle spirit,—^to the ruddier tinge, 
Charged from the liquid fount of very life,. 
Incessant mantling on her glowing lips,— 
Or to the more intensely crimson dye 
Of the warm current ever gushing on 
Through the deep channels of her throbbing 
heart. 
Nor to the eye alone commends herself 
The Queen of Flowers. The concentrated 
odours 
Of all her subject race, combined in one 
Impalpable, amalgamated essence, 
Would fail to match the fragrance she exhales. 
With boundless prodigality, while yet 
Her store decreaseth never. In the climes 
Of the delicious East, where the fair Rose 
Receives no stinted homage, bards have striven. 
To grace her beauties with an added charm : 
Thus have they feigned her as the chosen, 
bride 
Of the melodious Nightingale, who chants. 
His serenade, not for the listening stars. 
But for her ear alone. From such conceits- 
Roves Fancy to traditions of old time— 
Fantastic, yet poetic—of the change 
Of youths and nymphs to trees and flowers,, 
all bearing 
Some semblance of their pre-existing state 
Implanted on their forms;—the work of gods,. 
Themselves derived from superstitious men. 
In nations much enlightened, save in that 
Wherein consists true learning. Fair are ye,. 
Lilies and Roses! Every flower that grows 
Bears in itself peculiar loveliness : 
Would ye were all undying! Bootless wish! 
And impotent as bootless : for ye pass 
So quickly from our vision, that ye are 
Fit types and emblems of mortality ! 
Ye bud, ye bloom, are lovely in your primes 
As transient in your being, but so soon 
Ye droop, and fall, and perish, that the sun 
Can scarce mature yom’ beauty, ere ye lapse 
Among the things that have been, leaving still 
Young blossoms, your successors, which will 
fade 
E’en as youi’selves have faded. So doth man 
W’alk in life’s garden for a passing horn'. 
Then find his home beneath the soil he trod. 
Mouldering and soon forgotten: and his sons. 
Live in his stead. So individual man 
Is mortal and corruptible ; each one 
Bows to the grave, and feels the primal curse- 
On his own spirit. As himself hath known 
Sin and transgression, so he knows the power 
Of that dread sentence, “Thou shalt sui*ely^ 
die.” 
Thus fall the sons of earth; but ’tis not thua 
