THE SNOW-DROP. 
BARBAULD. 
Already now the snow-drop dares appear, 
The first pale blossom of th’unripen’d year; 
As Flora’s breath, by some transforming 
power, 
Had chang’d an icicle into a flower. 
Its name and hue the scentless plant retains. 
And winter lingers in its icy veins. 
The same. —anon. 
Oh ! sweetly beautiful it is to mark 
The virgin, vernal snow-drop ! lifting up— 
Meek as a nun—the whiteness of its cup. 
From earth’s dead bosom, desolate and dark. 
The same. —darwin. 
First in bright Flora’s train Galantha glows, 
And prints with frolic step the melting snows: 
Chides with her dulcet voice the tardy spring. 
Bids slumbering Zephyr stretch his folded 
wing, 
