SNOW-DROP. 
The same. —anqn. 
Ours is a garden, green and fair, 
And bright with flowers, in June ; 
And spicy shrubs waft odours there 
To the high harvest moon : 
But in spring hours, we scarce know why. 
Our snow-drops only come and die. 
The chestnut’s solemn boughs disclose 
Their thousand blossoms well, 
And hither comes luxuriant rose, 
Her tale of love to tell: 
The snow-drops tremble and are gone 
From the chill world they glanced upon. 
And she was like a bud that died. 
Forgot by all but me ; 
But often at our altar’s side, 
When the low grave I see, 
I think how those first flowers of spring 
Fade in their earliest blossoming. 
She sleeps not in her father’s tomb. 
Nor, when their days are past, 
To rest them in this shadowed gloom. 
Shall kindred come at last: 
Beneath this little marble stone. 
One infant corpse must rest alone. 
