THE CROCUS. 
Cnocus and Smilax may be turned to flowers, 
And the Curetes spring from bounteous 
show’rs; 
I pass a hundred legends stale as these. 
And with sweet novelty your taste will please. 
Ovid. 
And sudden Hyacinths the turf bestrow. 
And flow’ry Crocus made the mountain glow. 
Homer. 
The same .— white. 
Say, what impels, amid surrounding snow, 
Congealed, the crocus’ flying bud to glow? 
Say, what retards, amid the summer’s blaze, 
Th’ autumnal bulb, till pale, declining days? 
The GOT) OF SEASONS, whose pervading 
pow’r 
Controls the sun, or sheds the fleecy show'r ; 
He bids each flow’r his quick’ning word obey ; 
Or to each ling’ring bloom enjoins delay. 
