When Spring’s sun sheds his cheering gleam, 
And Winter’s storms take flight, 
At once before his génial beam 
Up starts the Aconite. 
Nature, lier pencil dipt in gold, 
Bedecks it in a night, 
And as each petal bursts its fold 
Enamels it with light. 
On its pale leaves of clearest green 
The pretty flow’ret lies; 
A happy prophetess, I ween, 
Of bright and cloudless skies. 
But if the sun his beams withhold 
The welcome promise pines; 
Type of the world, that soon grows cold 
When fortune’s sun déclinés. 
