©n dtotrMng s |fawra mt % first of fetrrnarj. 
6’. T. Coleridge. 
J^WEET Flower ! that peeping from thy russet stein 
Unfoldest timidly (for in strange sort 
This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering Month 
Hath borrowed Zephyr’s voice, and gazed on thee 
With blue, voluptuous eye), alas, poor Flower ! 
These are but flatteries of the faithless year. 
Perchance, escaped its unknown polar cave, 
E’en now, the keen North East is on its way 
Flower that must perish ! Shall I liken thee 
To some sweet girl, of too, too rapid growth, 
Nipped by consumption ’mid untimely charms? 
Or to Bristowa’s bard,* the wondrous boy ! 
An amaranth, which earth scarce seemed to own, 
Till disappointment came, and pelting wrong 
Beat it to Earth ? or with indignant grief 
Shall I compare thee to poor Poland’s hope, 
Bright flower of hope, killed in the opening bud? 
Farewell, sweet blossom ! better fate be thine 
* Chattertoa 
