^n-ofakrop. 17 
And, oh! so tenderly enjoyed 
Its faint, delicious smell. 
It was not only fair- and sweet, 
’Twas the first flower that came; 
So said they then, and there is none 
I could love now the same. 
The Aconite may deck with gold 
Its merry little , face— 
The Christmas Eose at Christmas bloom, 
But none can fill her place. 
Within my garden’s small domain 
The Snowdrop still shall find 
Herself the earliest flower. She leads, 
The others come behind. 
And, lo! above the heaving mould 
The clustering bells hang here; 
Like foam upon the storm-black wave, 
Or pearls in Ethiop’s ear. 
And I know where they’re crowding thick* 
With none their wealth to note;— 
All o’er that woody isle, that lies 
Girt by the ancient moat. 
There, under tall, dark crested firs, 
The Snowdrops spring each year; 
And shed about that gloomy place 
A lightness pale’ and clear. 
A grand old Manor House once stood 
On that dim moated isle; 
But long years since have floated by, 
And its story died the while. 
Set roses, cultured ones, run wild, 
And fruits, grown rough and sour, 
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