GARDENS, WREATHS, &c. 
27 
See Sharon’s Rose, whose sweets exhale, 
The lowly Lily of the vale. 
The flowers of Life’s immortal Tree, 
And Gilead’s balm, all tender’d thee— 
Bind them with faith—the wreath is thine. 
THE WINTER NOSEGAY. 
COWPER. 
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. 
’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. 
The pinks are as fresh and as gay 
As the fairest and sweetest that blow 
On the beautiful bosom of May. 
See how they have safely surviv’d 
The frowns of a sky so severe ; 
Such Mary’s true love, that has liv’d 
'I hro’ many a turbulent year. 
